


Green Eyes, Guns, and Dangerous Things

by VanillaGhost



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M, Omega Verse, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 88,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaGhost/pseuds/VanillaGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a Guide with a secret. But when revealed, the whole world seems like it's out to get him. First The Ministry, then an 'Order', and now a hit man from a covert organization bent on eradicating his kind. The hired gun seems to have an agenda of his own though. But what could Tom, an Alpha Sentinel, want from Harry?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Omega Overture

**Author's Note:**

> So the Omegaverse and Sentinel/Guide trope is by far my favourite thing ever. I've also been itching to write an assassin AU for a really long time now and thought 'Hey let's smash it all into one fic' so I hope I do them justice! :)
> 
> (Chapter titles are going to be variations of track names from the Utopia score because I'm obsessed.)

_"From face to foot  
_ _He was a thing of blood, whose every motion  
_ _Was timed with dying cries."_

―  _ **William Shakespeare**_ _, Coriolanus_

* * *

 

Out of a million people only one will be an Omega.

Out of billions, a mere fraction of a percent. A rapidly dwindling sub-gender of Guide among that of Alpha and Beta Sentinels.

An Omega Guide. Rare, weak, and coveted.

And of course Harry James Potter has to be one of them.

On most days it's something to be resented, but today Harry finds it particularly unbearable. He squirms in his office seat; an increasing barrage of emotions run rampant in the workplace today. People scrambling to get things done before the weekend. Consequently, it's starting to wreak havoc on his carefully constructed defenses.

A green gaze narrows on the computer screen in front of him in a final attempt to focus. A few more seconds of futility pass and Harry gives up. He slumps against his rolling chair in defeat. Sweat beads on his brow and Harry tugs uselessly at his collar and tie to relieve the stifling feeling. All the while a thought weighs down on him.  
  
_His heat is coming on soon._  
  
The thought is enough to jolt Harry into opening his side desk drawer and pull out the small medicinal bottle he keeps there for emergencies. Shaking it, a knot of dread lodges in his stomach at how dangerously near empty it sounds. It can't have been that long ago he bought it.

Harry tries to think when a sudden wave of emotions derail his thoughts. They're more potent than the rest and Harry knows who they belong to before he even looks up.

Two platinum blond heads strut out of the elevator on the far side of the office, a steady stream of smug condescension, disdain, and pride following in their wake.

Draco Malfoy and his father Lucius. Also known as Harry's boss and the CEO of the company he works for. Two of the more obnoxious Sentinels Harry has the misfortune of knowing as well as being two of the many who love reminding everyone exactly what they are.

The thought of them is enough to cause a headache on a good day. And Harry isn't the only one who shares this sentiment. He catches sight of a flaming head of red hair pop over top an office cubicle on the other side of the room. Coffee cup in hand, Ron sends Harry an exaggerated roll of his eyes, earning a grin of agreement from Harry. The two Sentinels continue to swan through the room, smirking and glaring in the appropriate places. Enough to intimidate or cause envy where deemed necessary. Harry's sure the reason is to make sure all of them are put in their place. But Harry doesn't have time for them now.  
  
With a deliberate movement, Harry turns back to his desk and tries to focus once more on his work. He can't afford to be here later than necessary tonight. 

Harry starts clicking away at the graphs in front of him when a particularly palpable prickle of heat shivers down his spine. He looks up on instinct to lock eyes with a pair of silver ones across the room. He freezes at Draco's stare which quickly morphs from one of curiosity to a deep sneer of disgust. As if Harry, a mere Beta Guide, were the one daring to ogle someone so out of his own league. Much to Harry's relief though, the Sentinel turns away again when his father departs to one of the meeting rooms around the corner. Harry can't help but release a small sigh. He doesn't want to imagine what would happen if they ever found out he's an Omega. The thought's enough to cause a thrum of fear through his veins.

The near-empty pill bottle sits on Harry's desk like a bad omen. 

He needs a refill, and quick. Before any Sentinels sniff him out. Or worse — Harry comes across an Alpha that wants to mate. Sentinels are hard to keep at bay at the best of times, but an Alpha Sentinel is a different story. Harry hasn't met one before but he's heard the stories. The articles on bonded Beta Guides revealing the horror stories of how they'd been claimed by an Alpha. The rare reports on Omegas who didn't even get the chance to run. Simply dropped into a submissive stance from the overwhelming force of the pheromones and their own heat.  
  
Despite the unbearable warmth, the fine hairs on Harry's arm stand on end. He doesn't even think when he grabs the bottle and pours out the remaining pills in his palm. There's enough to last him a few days at most. Three, maybe four. He'll have to make a trip downtown later today. 

 _But shit, if the stuff's expensive_.

Especially if one wants to purchase any without the Ministry's knowledge. Which it is, in Harry's case. As all and any Omegas are required by law to register themselves with the authorities. No doubt to pair him off with whomever they deem to be a suitable bondmate. Some overeager Sentinel, or maybe an overbearing Alpha Sentinel. All just to make sure their Omega is 'put to good use' and make it look like it's all completely justified and consensual.

Harry knows it's bullshit; they'd just like the chance to poke and prod at him.

The idea of being experimented on and kept locked up like some kind of lab rat makes Harry feel sick to his stomach.

"Hey, mate."

The familiar voice effectively startles Harry out of his thoughts. He jumps slightly in his seat before looking up to see his best friend leaning against his cubicle door. 

"Christ, Ron," Harry breathes.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," Ron says. His brow furrows when his eyes catch the pills. "What are  _those_  for?"

Harry looks down at his hand and quickly closes a fist around the pills.

"Oh - Um, it's nothing. Just have a headache, 's all," Harry says, and shoves the pill bottle back into his desk drawer.

Ron's mouth gives a twist but he doesn't question it. "Yeah, Malfoy's been a hard-arse all week. He's even got Hermione going round the bloody bend," he says with a chuckle. Harry tries one back but it sounds feeble even to his own ears. "Hey, some of the lads are going out for a pint later and asked if we wanted to join. Up for it?"

Harry waffles for a bit, torn between wanting to run straight back to his apartment and submerge himself in a tub of ice or get more meds while out with the others.

"Uh, yeah," Harry replies after some mental deliberation. He must sound strange because Ron's giving him a definite 'look'. He hastily adds on an "Absolutely" to reassure his friend which seems to do the trick.

Ron grins and claps him on the back. "Wicked," he says before moving to leave. "See you later, then. And don't mind the boss man too much, yeah?"

Harry smiles back. "Will do."

* * *

Drinks is a nightmare. As soon as work got out, Harry began to feel the strain of having to keep up his shields and contain his Heat. If it weren't for the pills he took before, Harry's sure he would've been a panting, hormonal mess by now. But he needs to restock, and  _fast_.

So with a hasty goodbye to Ron and the others, Harry leaves for the nearest tube station.

Clutching onto the nearest railing, Harry watches as the train rattles through the dark tunnels in a blur. He tries to regulate his breathing and concentrates on keeping his shields in place.

God, but having bodies stacked in and around him was  _not_  helping. Harry squirms and feels like he's dying a very slow, painful, death. He can only pray that no Sentinels will sniff him out. Then again, Harry supposes it's rather wishful thinking on his part. Even a Guide could see he was sweating buckets.

The train gives a violent jerk and comes to a sudden, screeching halt.

Harry's eyes widen in bewilderment until an announcement sounds through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay and will be continuing on our journey shortly. Thank you for your patience."  _Click._

Fuck.

Fuckfuck _ **fuck**_. Harry wipes his forehead and shifts, feeling an elbow dig into his back and someone's hip press against his leg. This was really not his day.

A warm hand covers his on the railing and Harry flinches before looking up, startled.

A heated gaze has locked onto him and he freezes.

_Shit._

Harry's mind screams for him to run but his body does something different. An unmistakable pull urges him to get closer to the Sentinel and have him run his hands all over him. Harry's breaths are coming short and fast and he has no doubt the Sentinel can sense his internal dilemma.

Harry needs to get out of there, and  _ **now**_.

The train jerks back into motion and Harry thinks he could cry in relief. But the Sentinel has pushed in closer now, inhaling deeply. There's an unmistakable question in his eyes that wars with the lust as if saying,  _'Are you really what I think you are?'_ and Harry wants to cry for help. He doesn't.

What he does manage to do is tear his eyes away, but they instantly catch sight of another head turn in the sea of people on the train. The head is slightly uplifted, as if smelling something strange in the air. It swivels in Harry's direction who anxiously ducks down, praying to whatever God to help him escape this alive and  _unbonded_. The heat feels like it's burning across his skin, eating him alive with want and need.

Harry looks up again when he hears a soft, rumbling sound from the Sentinel closest to him. He's spotted something through the crowd of people and must sense a threat. Harry hears an answering growl just near the doors on the other side and begins to truly panic. He really doesn't want to be responsible for anyone going feral.

But luck, it seems, was not on his side today.

The growls increase in ferocity and people are starting to notice. They look up from their tablets and newspapers. Even some with earphones in seem to sense a shift in the atmosphere. It was the unmistakable static hum of Sentinels about to go feral.

Or maybe they sense Harry. His body feels like a beacon and he's certain pheromones must be pouring off him in waves by now.

Mercifully, the train begins to slow and the doors open with an airy hiss.

" _Mind the gap,_ " the automated voice chirps as Harry practically throws himself from the train and onto the platform. He finds himself almost pushing people aside in his haste to escape, but only manages to go ten steps when a hand latches onto his wrist like an iron shackle.

A spike of anxiety shoots through Harry and the grip tightens, the Sentinel clearly sensing his distress and feeling the urge to comfort and soothe. He tries to pull Harry towards him but is stopped by another, larger Sentinel. He must be the one from the train because he's suddenly ripping the other Sentinel's hand away from Harry's wrist with an impressive snarl.

Harry doesn't even take the moment to see what happens next before shooting off into the crowd. He races up the stairs and comes close to hurdling over the ticket gates but manages to pull out his Oyster card just in time.

A minute later and Harry finally emerges onto the busy streets of Leicester Square, London. He doesn't stop or slow down for a second, though, as the need to get away still rages through him like fire. Harry thinks he must look ridiculous with his work suit still on and tie flapping about him as he runs, pell-mell, through the streets. But he finds he can't care when the urge to fuck the next Sentinel nearest to him is this overwhelming.

As he races along, Harry vaguely notes the heads which begin to turn as he passes. No doubt smelling the scent of an Omega. Harry swears he can hear footsteps begin to follow him at some point and a few arms even reach out to grab at him on the sidewalk. It only makes him sprint harder as words like a drum beat in his head —  _ **Danger, escape, mate, Heat.**_

 _No!_ Not mate. He has to keep the Heat at bay.

_Suppress, suppress, suppress the urges._

Harry twists and turns a path through the throng of people on the sidewalks until he finally makes a sharp turn onto Newport court. He manages to find respite in a run-down Chinese shop where he tries to regain some semblance of composure. His chest heaves with heavy pants as he prays that no one in there is a Sentinel or will report him.

Harry quickly scans his surroundings and finds that the place is almost completely empty. There's one other person a few aisles down but they seem completely oblivious to his presence. They must be a Mute or a Guide. Either way, it's Harry's first shred of luck that they aren't a Sentinel. Or one of the authorities.

Harry ventures further into the store and nears the front when an old Chinese man comes hobbling out from behind the counter. He regards Harry with a shrewd look.

"Can help you?" the man says in broken english.

"Er, no. It's alright. Just looking," Harry says, still quite out of breath. The man gives him another skeptical frown before he cocks his head to the side and sniffs.

Harry freezes, every muscle in his body coiling with adrenaline.

"Omega?" comes the inevitable question.

Harry's eyes dart to the exit, ready to bolt at any moment despite the burning in his lungs from the race over here. The old man just shakes his head though, and doesn't wait for a response before gesturing with one arm for Harry to follow. Harry remains still, not trusting the other yet, and watches him disappear round the counter and into the back of the store.

Harry is suddenly aware he's been left completely alone. If he needed to escape, this is his chance. He can make a break for it right now. But something in him tells him to stay, so he tentatively makes his way up to the counter. The old man reappears a moment later and Harry sees that he has a bottle of pills with him. Harry's eyes immediately latch onto them, able to tell what they are without being told.

"Hormone suppressor," comes the deliberate answer.

"How much?" The question comes out in a breathless rush.

"Forty-five pound."

Harry's already fumbling out his wallet and shoving the money into wrinkled hands.

* * *

A few minutes later finds Harry walking out of the small shop, pills in pocket and forty-five pounds lighter, but relieved. He tugs up the hood of his coat over his head and ducks out of the store.

But as soon as Harry turns the street corner, he's set upon by a dozen uniformed officers.

Hands grab at him and the unmistakable shape of an injection is being pulled out. As soon as Harry sees the needle, adrenaline and fear pulse through him hard. He closes his eyes and in a desperate attempt, he feels out the walls of his empathy before frantically pushing it all  _OUT_.

Rough hands that were previously clinging to him are ripped away and Harry opens his eyes to see himself surrounded by Sentinels in pain. Some lay on the ground and clutch their heads while others are doubled over and crying out for their Guides. Passersby look on at the scene in confusion and alarm.

Not sparing a guilty thought for it, Harry takes this as his opportunity.

He just manages to bolt past the indisposed Sentinels when he's abruptly slammed into from behind and thrown to the ground. In the next second, Harry's not-so-gently cuffed and can feel something sharp jab him in the side of his neck. He cries out until the leathery texture of a collar being placed on him gets him into a real panic.

He wants to fight against it, search out the walls of his empathy again and do something. But the injection from before makes his vision swim and his limbs uncooperative. Harry barely manages to let out a last, despairing yell before everything goes completely black.


	2. The Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a terribly interesting chapter, I'm afraid. But don't worry - the action picks up again right after this. (And from Tom's perspective.) :D

Harry's limbs are too heavy. He can't move and his eyes won't focus. Did they take away his glasses? But no, he can still feel their vague, familiar weight on his face. He tries to shake off this lethargy but seems unable to. He doesn't even know if he wants to. It feels calm. Unnaturally so.

The thought begins to distantly alarm Harry.

Shapes and faces appear in and out his vision. Sometimes they speak to him. Or about him. (He can't be sure.)

Harry wants to call out — For help, for answers, for some small respite from the building discomfort crawling underneath his skin. The heat that envelops him burns. He wets his lips and he's sure unnatural noises are coming from his mouth. He strains against something that holds him down to a slightly padded surface that feels like a hospital bed. Stark white walls of a room come in and out of his vision. The people are leaving him now and all he can see are padded walls —  _sound-proof_ , his mind supplies through his delirium. No doubt they're also proofed against his raging pheromones that call out for a mate.

It's then that Harry dimly realises that he's in a Heat chamber. He's heard of them. The Ministry uses them for Guides and, in the very rare cases when they have one, Omegas such as himself.

Harry wishes he had his medication. He can hardly stand this. How anyone could, he has no idea. He wonders why Omega Heats are more unbearable than a normal or Beta Guide's. Harry clenches his teeth, biting down so hard he can feel the tang of blood in his mouth. But he brunts through the unbearable Heat despite the frustration and agony, crying out for comfort and release. It feels as if his mind is slowly being eaten by an insatiable hunger that spreads throughout the rest of his body, making it wild and desperate for something — or rather,  _someone_. Nonetheless, the whole thing goes by in a frenzied haze and Harry finds he (thankfully) has hardly memory of it at all except for the lingering traces of shame and frustration.  


Harry is now more clear-headed than he's been in days, and finds it does not agree with him. It feels as if he drank an entire liquor store and is going through one of the worst hangovers ever experienced. He's cold and exhausted as he sits in another barren, stark room. This one, however, is not sound-proofed and as clinical as the other. It looks more like an uncozy hotel room. Harry thinks he might as well be in a prison cell.

A security guard — and Guide, Harry noticed — had escorted him after they took him to be washed and cleaned of all evidence of his Heat (possibly one of the most humiliating things Harry's experienced so far) and now he's locked away, alone, with just the CCTV camera outside his door and one in the corner of his room to keep him company. Harry is sulking when another Guide comes in. She is escorted by a Sentinel though, who watches Harry closely and with such curiosity that it makes the Omega squirm and avoid eye contact.

  
The Guide's name is Dr. Lovegood, and she tries to make sure he's calm in her presence, which Harry appreciates. The few days he's spent here have not been easy on his shields and his nerves. Harry finds her empathy directionless, but soothing nonetheless. She has that certain tranquil atmosphere about her.

"How are we doing today, Harry?" She asks him in a calm, lyrical voice. It's like the tinkling of bells and is rather pleasant to the ear.

Harry looks up at her from bruised eyes that haven't had enough sleep.

"Alright," He says, and his voice is scratchy. (Probably hoarse from all the screaming he's done). He clears it.

"That's good," She comments, and scribbles something down on her clipboard before unfolding a soft smile. Her smiles are always distant and dream-like, a little detached from reality. "Would you like to come with us, please?"

A strum of anxiety reverberates through Harry but gentle fingers reach his mind in a light caress and stop the feeling from escalating.

"Where are you taking me?" Harry asks once he's calmed a bit.

"We just need to run some medical checks. It won't take a moment."

Harry clenches his jaw but complies. It would be no use to fight back anyway. They would just drug him and Harry would rather be fully conscious when they do whatever they were going to do to him. He pushes off the bed to be led by the Guide and Sentinel into a medical room down the hall. Dr. Lovegood takes his blood and performs other physical check-ups while the Sentinel stands authoritatively in the corner, arms folded across his burly chest and never taking his eyes off Harry. It all leaves him feeling just as Harry expected he would.  
Like a lab rat and a convict.

That is how Harry comes to sit in this room now, once more left alone to his own devices with nothing but his thoughts for company. His fingers come up to brush against the hated and vile thing around his neck and, unbidden, a memory from when he was a child growing up comes to mind.

" _You cant'!"_

" _Oh, yes I can. And I will!"_

" _But I need those! I need - !" Panic starts to creep into fifteen-year-old Harry's voice and sweeps through him, making him break out in a cold sweat. Uncle Vernon has taken away his Omega pheromone suppressing pills. So far they were the only thing that was stopping him from going into a full-blown Heat and giving off waves of irresistible mating call smells. Harry tries to swipe at the bottle but his uncle is stronger and heavily shoulders him aside to take the bottle and lock it in one of the cupboards they use to keep Dudley from eating certain treats reserved for guests._

_At a complete loss, Harry feels despair start to claw his heart. He knows his cycle will be coming on soon and if he didn't have those pills… Harry shudders to think of what might happen._

_His Omega scent has been enough of a bother for his relatives before, though. There is still the hope that they'll give in when they can't stand his smell any longer. But Harry is afraid of what might happen at school. Dudley usually likes to play a game called 'Harry Hunting' which initially means he does nothing to stop his friends from taking advantage of the delicious smelling Omega and chase him down to take every chance they can to rub up against Harry and scent him. It frightens and shames Harry that he never knows how far they are going to go with it. With each year that passes, the more he has to double his dose of pills to try and keep his Heat at bay, dampening his pheromones as much as possible. An Omega is a rare thing. No one can know, of course, lest he be taken in by The Ministry and be under tabs to make sure he was making efforts to bond with someone. Or Harry could be sold to the highest eligible Sentinel bidder. He's sure his relatives aren't above doing such a thing. It's only a matter of waiting for when the penny would eventually drop. As far as anyone knows, Harry is just a rather delectable smelling Beta Guide. Nothing more. But he would still rather not be slammed up against a locker and rutted against again..._

In his room, jaded and grim, Harry knows what else he feels like —  
Used.

* * *

Harry is half asleep when a soft knock sounds at his door. He sits up in mild alarm, turning on the bedside lamp and blinking blearily as he fumbles on his glasses. The door opens to reveal Guide Lovegood and she smiles at him distractedly.

"Hello, Harry," She says in her airy voice, and her eyes flicker for a moment to the ceiling in the corner of his room before they focus on him once more. Harry always thought she looks like she's in her own world half the time. And when their conversations aren't about his dynamic or health, she says the most bizarre things. Now, however, appears to be different. There seems to be a purpose to her impromptu visit and Harry didn't need his Guide senses to sense it.

"What's going on?" Harry asks, still befuddled and alert by her sudden appearance at this hour.

"There's someone who wants to see you," She says by way of reply and Harry looks to the door as if expecting someone to come in at any moment. But she explains in her next words, "He's waiting in his office. Would you like to meet him?"

Harry cautiously gets out of his bed, eyes trained on the Guide as if she would suddenly stick him with a needle if he didn't comply. He has no idea what's going on, but is sure it wasn't good.

Harry warily follows Dr. Lovegood out the room and immediately notes the absence of a certain Sentinel guard. Harry looks to the Guide beside him who only gives him another puzzling smile in return. Harry is not assured.

They walk down the empty, darkened corridors and Harry slowly begins to notice all the cameras are facing away from them. Perplexed but not about to comment on it, Harry continues on until they get to the elevators. He's tense as they go up to the very top floor and casts a leery glance at the camera in the lift, wondering who was watching from the other side and if there was anyone even watching at all. Harry shoots his companion another look before the doors open and they arrive at another deserted floor. They both step out and Harry's eyes immediately alight on the front desk reception where steel letters announce this level as 'The Order of the Phoenix'.

Harry stops dead in his steps for a moment.

 _Whoa_ , He thinks. He's heard of The Order. Practically everyone has. They're as close as it got to MI5 for Sentinels and Guides.

A new feeling of apprehension washes over Harry.  _What could The Order possibly want with_ him _?_

Harry's taken out of his sudden moment of alarm when a soothing trickle of calm brushes him. He blinks and sees Dr. Lovegood watching him with a patient and complacent expression on her face. Normally he abhorred his emotions being manipulated or prodded at by Guides, but for some reason he finds he doesn't mind when it is Guide Lovegood. It's somehow less intrusive when she does. Temporarily soothed, Harry follows her as she makes turns into a hall and they finally come to a door with a gold nameplate that reads:

**_Chief Guide A. Dumbledore,_ **

**_Head of Operations_ **  


Dr. Lovegood opens the door and they step into a large and very impressive office. It's not at all typical of what Harry thought a Chief and Head of The Order would have. Somehow Harry expects something more sleek and cold like the rest of the building that seems to be made entirely of steel and glass. But this office has something eclectic about it.

A group of tall, silver candelabras with candles stand near the far side of the room while on the other side, there is a set of glass cabinets that hold curious looking ornaments and objects. Large gilt frames crowd every inch of wall space and hold oil-painted portraits of historical figures Harry doesn't recognize. There are shelves upon shelves of books, an enormous, claw-footed desk where a single lamp sits emitting a warm glow. Next to this is a stand with a cloth cover over it but Harry's attention is soon brought back to the present when he spots the presence of an old man sitting in a leather chair, calmly regarding him.

With a start, Harry wonders if the man has always been there or if he came in some time when Harry was perusing his office. But then Harry senses him as the Head Guide, and quite a strong one at that, and answers the question of how he went unnoticed until now.

Clear, sparkling eyes watch Harry over half-moon spectacles and Harry is immediately apprehensive.

"Please, Mr Potter. Take a seat," The old man, Dumbledore, says genially and gestures with one wrinkled hand at the chair in front of his desk. Harry complies just as Dumbledore nods to Guide Lovehood behind him that she can leave. As soon as the door closes, a silence descends where nothing is heard except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room.

Harry begins to squirm under the piercing gaze of the old Guide, extremely uncomfortable with the quiet scrutiny.

"Do you mind?" Comes the sudden question. Harry opens his mouth just to ask what he means when he feels it —

An unmistakable pressure of something sharp probes at his shields and Harry recoils. His shields slam up with such force it leaves him dizzy, as he still hasn't fully recovered from using it so aggressively just a few days before.

Despite the unwelcoming force that greets the old Guide, however, the presence does not pull away and instead gently feels along Harry's shields, observing, testing... Before they eventually drop away and Harry sags in relief. He has no doubt the Guide could have easily pierced through if he wanted, even when Harry was at a hundred percent and prepared.

"You are quite the capable Guide, I see," Dumbledore says. Harry's eyes narrow but Dumbledore waves him off. "No need to be so on edge, my boy. You're making Fawkes nervous."

 _Fawkes?_  Harry wants to ask but is stopped by a sudden, piercing shriek.

He jumps in his seat, earning a chuckle from Dumbledore who gets up to go over to the curtained stand beside his desk. He pulls off the cloth covering and Harry's eyes are instantly captivated by the brilliantly coloured bird held inside the brass cage. It's breast and body is a deep scarlet while it's head and wings a rich butter colour. Running just along the tips of it's wings, a midnight blue peaks out from within in all the sunset hues. A long speckled plume trails behind it elegantly. Harry thinks he has never seen something so magnificent or exotic. The bird lets out another series of soft chirps and Dumbledore tuts as he opens the cage so the bird can climb out to perch on his forearm.

"Ahhh, Fawkes," Dumbledore says, and explains: "He's a Golden Pheasant. Native to western China, but also bred here in the UK. I find him to be extremely comforting most times. At others, he is simply a nuisance." An affectionate smile directed at the bird belies his words though, and earns a content caw in reply.

Harry watches them for a moment and begins to fidget.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dumbledore," Harry cuts in, unable to be silent any more. "But what's going on? Why am I here?" The frustration of being taken places against his will and having no answers has him bubbling with impatience.

Dumbledore nods and his joviality turns to seriousness. Harry feels a slight guilt for the sudden shift.  
"Yes, unfortunately, Harry, your status as an Omega has been the most talked-about topic in the country at this moment. And as I'm sure you already know, it's a very rare and coveted dynamic." Harry does know. It's the one thing he makes sure to never forget, and is exactly why he's stayed hidden all this time. "So you can also imagine that there are many with admittedly ill intentions that may wish to have you in their grasp."

Harry stares, a tension coiling in his body, when something clicks in his brain and makes his stomach tie up in knots.

"Is there someone after me?"

Sharp eyes catch Harry's and hold them.

"Not as of yet," Comes Dumbledore's even reply. "But there is a very high possibility there will be. Have no doubt about that."

Harry nods numbly. "So..." His voice wavers and he clears it before continuing. "What does that mean? Aren't I safe here?"

Dumbledore sits back in his large, leather chair. A pensive expression on his face, he pets Fawkes who coos softly at his ministrations, the feathers on it's body expanding like a blowfish before smoothing down once again.

"Being part of a subdivision here, I would like to say that I have utmost faith that The Ministry have everything under control. But I'm afraid that would not be entirely truthful of me. You see, it is my belief that our enemies are not to be underestimated. A view that our Minister does not share with me, unfortunately. Many people like to believe that this place is an impenetrable fortress. But there are snakes in the grass, Harry..."

Dumbledore trails off and is silent for a moment before he reaches over to a glass jar on his desk. It is filled with yellow coloured sweets of some kind and he offers one to Harry. Harry politely declines, not knowing how he could possibly eat at this time. Quite frankly, he feels ill at the direction this conversation is pointing.

"What my department proposes is that we move you to a safer, more secure location," Dumbledore starts up again, unwrapping the candy and popping it onto his tongue. "Somewhere that only personnel of the highest rank will know the details of. And very few of them, at that."

"You want to hide me? Where?" Harry asks, startled.

"I'm afraid I cannot discuss the particulars, for obvious reasons. But, yes. We would like to have you transported sometime tomorrow."

Harry sits, mind racing and brow scrunched, on this new information.

"I suppose I have no say in this at all?" Harry mutters.

"None at all," Dumbledore replies simply, and Harry's stomach drops. Bitter resignation settles in him and he grits his teeth.

A glimmer of sympathy appears in the old Guide's expression.

"Sometimes, when one cannot change their circumstances, they can only make the best of it, I'm afraid."

Harry has nothing to say to this and averts his gaze to one of the portraits on the wall. It's a picture of a large woman with a glass held aloft and mouth open in song.

There's a soft sigh and Harry hears Dumbledore say, "Well, then. I will hardly keep you from a good night's rest. I'm sure you need it."

Harry starts to rise when he thinks of something, and stops.

"There's just one thing," He says, earning a raised brow from Dumbledore.

"And what would that be, my boy?"

"My friends. I want Hermione and Ron to be able to visit me," Harry says, more like a demand than anything. "You know, in this — this  _safe location_."

Dumbledore looks at him with calculative eye for a long moment and Harry feels sure the old man will refuse.

"I'm sure it can be managed."

Harry sags in relief and smiles. It's the first real smile for days.

"Thanks."

  
Harry is on his way back to his room, accompanied once again by Guide Lovegood, when he feels the growing sense of foreboding rise in his chest. Though his future is uncertain, one thing Harry can say for sure is that he won't be able to find sleep for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was interested, this is the bird mentioned: [[link](http://img.burrard-lucas.com/china/full/golden_pheasant.jpg)] (Kinda just looks like a really flamboyant chicken, doesn't it.)


	3. Where Is Harry Potter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @uO.. llol i'm so tired. I'm just gonna post this up before I nod off at my keyboard any moment. So, viola~ Here you go. <3

**(ONE DAY EARLIER)**   _Rome, Italy._

It's a pleasant day, mild for the summer season. The streets are busy with people enjoying the rare breeze and gentle sun. Cafés, bars, and restaurants are crowded with the lunchtime rush. Only a select few are quiet and calm.

On it's spectacular 'Roof Garden', The  _Grand_   _Hotel de la Minerve_ 's restaurant caters to an older woman and her  _Gigolò_  as they sit and converse under the shade of large gazebo-like umbrellas. The view of the city from here is incomparable and together they enjoy it with glasses of fine Italian wine and cuisine. The conversation is easy with a smattering of flirtatious remarks. The man is sleek and and masculine in a tantalizingly pretty way. He oozes youthful confidence and a certain naiveté that is at once captivating and endearing.

She is a Beta Guide. He is a hot-blooded Sentinel.

She smiles and flips her chic, hundred-euro haircut before reaching out with a tastefully jewelled hand and running it over the young man's own. The Sentinel catches the gesture for what it is and returns the smile with one of his own; The effect is heart-stopping. His dark eyes flick up to meet hers beneath his lashes and he is oh so beautiful. The Guide can see the promise of a memorable night in his very being. One that not even she can anticipate. She tells herself she never stood a chance.

She doesn't know how right she is.

When the check is paid, the Sentinel leans over and whispers suggestive words in her ear. By the sound of her heart rate picking up, he knows she's already agreed. With a coy parting glance over her shoulder, she departs to her hotel suite where he will soon join her.

The Sentinel stretches out his senses to follow her progress before he follows shortly after. He takes the stairs. Just like he did when he went to meet her on the rooftop. (A small fact unbeknown to her.)

* * *

The sound of the shower running reaches his ears before he even arrives on the floor of her hotel suite. The Sentinel uses the spare keycard she'd slipped him earlier and quietly enters the place. Carefully taking off his Prada sunglasses and setting them down on a passing table, he stalks over to the bathroom. The aroma of various creams and gels make themselves known through the crack of the door and the air is hot and damp. He rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons the first two buttons of his designer shirt before slipping through the unlocked door.

The glass shower door is fogged over with steam but the shape of the Beta Guide is clear with his sharp eyes. Her mature but elegant hands run through her hair as she lifts her face up to the spray and he silently steps into the stall behind her. He allows a faint trickle of anticipation (not exactly difficult to muster) to seep through and reach her. The woman turns with a seductive smile on her lips and the gesture is returned easily. The Sentinel then places a hand to the side of her face —

And throws it against the tiled wall with enough force to hear it crack.

The sound reverberates around the small space as she falls to the porcelain floor with a wet thump. Water from the showerhead continues to batter down on her naked, lifeless body and the Sentinel takes a moment to stare down at his work.

It's been quite a challenge, in the end. Seeing as she'd actually put quite a considerable amount of effort in her security. But not enough to scare off any male advances. Women were like that. Especially the rich, older ones. They knew that soon money would be all they had to convince someone to spend a night in their bed, and the Sentinel used that.

He exits the stall, retrieves the sunglasses from the table in the livingroom area, and leaves the hotel altogether. They would soon find her body. 'An accident' is what they'll call it in the papers.

And that's exactly what he made sure it looked like.

His cell rings on  _Via del Corso_  and he picks up without checking the number. He doesn't need to; He knows who it is.

"Mr Riddle? Tom Riddle?" The voice on the other end says. It's a new addition, clearly. The Sentinel, Tom, shuts his eyes briefly in exasperation.

"Yes. Don't say my name again."

From behind his shades, Tom does a surreptitious sweep of the street around him. He's always careful. But he's also learned that one can't be  _too careful_.

There's a tell-tale hitch of breath from the phone; The new blood is nervous.

_Good._

"Right. Sorry — Um, there's been a new order placed —"

Tom cuts him off there; "I just finished a job. You want me to do another?"

The guy on the other end is mumbling and anxious, clearly not wanting to anger the D.E.'s most deadly contractor.

"It's straight from HQ, sir. Voldemort himself asked for you."

At that, Tom is still.

"Oh?"

"Yes, it's in London, England. Marked highly important. Half the D.E. is on it."

Tom's interest is piqued despite himself.

"I'll be there. Tomorrow."

He hangs up.

This could be interesting.

* * *

Tom arrives back in the mother country the next day. He's at a phone booth as soon as he's through the sliding doors of Heathrow airport, having already ditched the disposable back in Rome.

"Yes?"

Tom instantly recognizes the low, almost bored drawl.

"Snape. It's Tom," He replies. "I'm here."

"And by that, I must assume...?"

Irritation. Tom is sure Snape gets off on it. Given the chance, Tom would love nothing more than to snap his traitorous, lying neck. The only problem that stood in his way was proof, of course. But so far the rat's been very careful. Very clean.

(But people make mistakes. They always do.)

"Heathrow. Terminal 2."

There's a moment of silence followed by an almost inaudible sigh. But Tom picks it up. Having a Sentinel's superior senses was useful, and being an Alpha was even better. Which is uncoincidentally why Tom's the best at what he does.

Because his senses are the best.

A fact Snape knew, and which Tom suspected the man liked to feign ignorance of just to fuck with him.

"There's a place. Near Terminal 1 — Costa. Wait there," Snape says before the line goes dead. Tom hangs up on the grating sound of the dial tone.

It's not the most classiest of meeting points. But he does what he's told. For now.

* * *

In a secluded corner in the back near the windows, Tom sits and waits. His back faces the wall so he has a clear view of the cafe and the people outside on the sidewalk.

Which is why Tom can see Snape the instant he appears on the street corner a few blocks down the road. The Sentinel watches the man in his rather obvious black-clad attire as he nears the cafe. But when the door opens, Tom's eyes don't lift from the cup of English Breakfast in his hand.

Snape has no sooner sat across from Tom than he's pushing a manila folder across the table. Tom opens it to find all the info he needs on his new target:  _Harry James Potter_. A Guide.

But Tom's eyes catch on the next thing he finds:

An Omega too.

"He wants him alive," Snape says without preamble. Let it not be said the man's one to waste words. Tom doesn't need to ask who 'He' is either, and scans the pages in front of him with an air of disinterest.

"For his top secret little experiments, no doubt?" Tom replies, and slides the file back across the table. "I kill people. Not kidnap them." That should be that. End of discussion. But Snape's beady eyes narrow and he pushes the file back over.

"You do now."

Tom's hand gives a minute twitch around his cup at the command. But he'll never give Snape the satisfaction of anything more. The man is a Mute but anything could be noticed. Tom's never had trouble containing his emotions or thoughts and any physical or emotional tell would be a betrayal to his impeccable facade. (Not to mention, a slight to his dignity.)

He looks over the greasy man in front of him now and his senses miss nothing; Tom can even smell the cigarettes and coffee Snape had for breakfast.

"I'm sure you'd like to pretend this work is beneath you, Mr. Riddle," Snape breaks through the tense silence in his slow-as-molasses tone. "But I think we both know that isn't true. So there isn't any point in lying."

 _If you actually believed that, you'd be dead,_  Tom doesn't say, but instead takes a sip of tea. Really, Voldemort was a fool to trust this man.

"Then I suppose I should stop the pretense," Tom ends up saying, and adds in an air of false contrition to his expression. (The uncomfortable look he receives in return is worth it, he thinks.)

Tom sets down his now empty cup and slips the file into his briefcase before turning the combination code lock at random.

* * *

Getting into the Ministry isn't hard. No place is safe from Voldemort's reach and this includes the Ministry building, to some extent.

Tom comes in as a cleaner. A quick rendezvous in an emtpy file room with an unsuspecting Sentinel, a few minutes of cleanup later, and he comes out a security guard.

It's funny how things like that work.

Tugging his uniform cap lower over his eyes, Tom bows his head in a false show of meekness. He's already taken medication to suppress his Alpha pheromones, and with an additional dose of tablets even his strong Sentinel presence is dampened. Tom hates this part of the job. Taking the meds always makes him sluggish and the Alpha in him rages and screams at being restrained like this.

Tom uses the security pass all the way to the file room when he finds his luck stops there. The card apparently only works up until this point and isn't cleared to be in this part of the building. Frustrated, Tom thinks of another way in when the doors behind him open. He freezes when he notices it's another Sentinel.

Tom doesn't turn to face the white-collar worker but hears the question clearly,

"Who are  _you_?"

Tom looks up just in time to see the man's eyes lift from the keycard in his hands to the face underneath the cap. The face which clearly doesn't match the one on the ID.

With a single, severe blow to the bridge of his nose, Tom has the Sentinel crumpling to his knees before he can even blink. Blood pours from the man's nose and into his hands as Tom reaches for the baton hanging from his belt. With a brutal force, he whacks him over the head once — twice — five times, before the man's a twitching mess on the floor.

Tom stands over the body and huffs out a single sigh of exertion while he absently wipes away the fine spray of warm liquid near his mouth.

Fuck, he thinks. Now he's on a time limit.

Keeping his back to the only witness of his crime, a small camera in the corner, Tom steps over the pulpy mess of the Ministry employee and into the file room with his newly acquired keycard.

Tom goes straight for the restricted section and scans through the files they have on Omegas. When he finds nothing on any 'Harry James Potter', he tries for the witness protection files and then some. All are empty. Void of information.

Impossible.

He yanks open another drawer, rifles through more papers, and then there's —

 _Nothing_.

He slams a cabinet shut and takes one curt, deep breath through his nose.

Jerking his uniform cap more tightly over his head, Tom slips back out the file room. He manages to make it all the way down the hall unnoticed before the sound of heavy booted footsteps are heard.

It seems the cavalry has finally arrived.

Tom quickens his pace to a run and turns a sharp corner towards a remote exit. He quickly strips out of his uniform once outside and chucks it into a nearby dumpster before striding over to the nearest tube station. And if any Sentinel gives him a look for smelling like dried blood, well it's their problem.

Now it's time to make his frustration known, Tom thinks. It's time for Plan B.

* * *

Tom slides on his black leather gloves. It's very chill and brisk as he stands staring out at a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock is the most miserable little shack one can imagine and an unforgiving wind blows across the iron-grey water below where an old row boat bobs. A toothless old man comes up to Tom and points with a wicked grin down at the little thing. Tom doesn't even spare him a glance. He simply reaches into his coat pocket, retrieves his shiny '44 and shoots the man square in the chest. The wrinkled face twists in alarm before he falls. Tom doesn't spare another moment as he makes his way down to the boat and begins to row out across the water.

The Dursley's certainly know how to pick their vacationing homes, Tom thinks darkly. Yet he can't begrudge the fact that the location is suitable for what he's going to do.

No witnesses, meaning no need to be quiet.

Tom idly recalls the storm forecast for tonight. He'd have to make the job relatively quick.

Once the rowboat thumps against the island of rock, Tom steps out a little unsteadily but always with a capable air of grace. Despite his lithe and tall frame, there's a hidden power and strength behind it which Tom can make known at any time he chooses. It certainly helps with his undercover work.

Tom climbs up to the little shack and rings the doorbell, the tiny buzz being the only warning for those inside.

When the door opens, it's to a big, beefy man with hardly any neck and a very large mustache. Tom graces the disgruntled man with one of his charmingly dishonest smiles. Small eyes narrow in response.

"Good evening, sir," Tom says. "I wondered if you could tell me where one Mr. Harry Potter could be?"

The large man's face pulls into itself, scrunching into one big frown.

"What?" He barks. "Who are you? You'd better not be another one of those bloody reporters. We've had enough of those!" He waves a fat finger in Tom's face but the Sentinel doesn't flinch.

"Not at all, sir," Tom replies calmly. "Only an... interested party."

The man's frown only deepens in his confusion but he snaps back, "Look here, you. My family have come  _to get away_ from that boy's nonsense and rubbish. So leave us alone!"

He slams the door in Tom's face.

Gloved fingers twitch at Tom's side. It seems it's going to be a long night. (And Tom's a man of limited patience at the moment.)

A black leather finger pushes down on the buzzer once more, this time with slow deliberation. When there is no immediate answer, Tom repeats the action.

The door flies open with a dangerous rattle and an ominous whine.

"You have some nerve disturbing us at this — !" The blustering voice cuts off into choked sputters in the face of the barrel of Tom's gun.

"I do hate repeating myself..." Tom says, as if to himself. He pushes the metal nozzle into the man's head until he's backed up into the house again. Tom follows and closes the door shut behind him with a soft and ominous  _click_. "But I'll ask once more: Where. Is. Harry. Potter."

Mr. Dursley's mouth opens and closes like a fish and Tom wonders if he'll talk, until —

"Vernon? Dear? What's going on? Who was at the — "

At the sharp intake of breath, Tom knows she's going to scream. He's never Zoned before but the more unexpected the distraction, the harder it is to control oneself. And of course, loud noises still  _hurt like a motherfucker_  to a Sentinel's ears.

In one fluid movement, Tom focuses the weapon on her and, thankfully, this is enough for her lips to seal shut, nice and tight.

"I asked your husband here a question but I'm afraid he hasn't answered me. So I'll only ask you once." Tom raises a brow questioningly and by the trembling of Mrs. Dursley's lips and wide eyes, he can assume she understands. "Now,  _where is Harry Potter?_ "

But his questioning is interrupted once again.

This time it is their large (and very much adult) son that comes thundering down the stairs, and Tom thinks one would have more sense.

Tom decides he might just have to make an example of those who interrupted business.

"Dudley! Duddydums, please. You have to go to your room now. Mummy and Daddy'll take care of this."

Tom's stomach twists at the way a grown adult man is being coddled by his parents. The barrel of his gun moves so it's now aimed at their son. The woman gasps and her husband's eyes widen.

"I'm afraid he'll have to stay here," Tom informs them. They both stare with a look of frozen horror on their faces. Tom's lip curl into a smile that looks more like a grimace. "You see, you still haven't answered my question. And I've already told you I don't like repeating myself."

" _We don't_ _ **know**_ _,_ damn you!" Mr. Dursley roars and Tom takes the moment to inhale the pungent scent of fear in the air, so familiar after all this time in his line of work.

And then he feels it.

It that predictable  _snap_  where human turns to animal. Where a mother's attachment to her offspring pushes her to desperation.

"DUDLEY,  _ **RUN**_ **!** " Comes Mrs. Dursley's scream.

Two loud bursts, in quick succession. A double tap to the chest and the thought to obey his mother probably hasn't even reached the son's head before he stumbles back and falls to the ground, lifeless.

Then, of course, comes the piercing shriek. That  _awful_ , wounded sound.

Tom quickly cuts it off with a bullet through the skull before turning to the dumbstruck father and puts one in his neck, just to be spiteful.

Tom has never appreciated being talked to so impolitely, and now the man will suffer for it. He would asphyxiate, eventually. That is if the blood loss didn't do it first.

Tom heaves a sigh and stands quietly for a minute. The only sounds heard are the gurgles and hollow thumps of Mr. Dudley's flailing limbs in the corner, and a clock ticking somewhere in the house. At the hum of the refrigerator, Tom steps over the Dursley family to go into to the kitchen. His eyes scan the room until he spots the boiler cabinet and he strides over to the counter. Pulling open a few drawers, he finds one with a wrench inside and takes it out before going over to the boiler. He draws his arm back and lands a violent blow to the pipe. A few more consecutive efforts and the pipe bursts, spewing forth the unmistakable odour of gasoline. That done, Tom grabs a few magazines from the kitchen table and jams them into the toaster before he pushes down the lever.

All in all, he thinks, it's a job well done. The only frustrating fact left is that there's still no answer to his question.  _Where is Harry Potter?_


	4. To You All Men Will Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to link the song this chapter's titled after because I think it's a noteworthy B/A piece of music haha. [♪♫ '[To You All Kids Will Come](https://vt.tumblr.com/tumblr_njv1qkextH1qa994p.mp4#_=_)'] (Kicks in around the 1:28 mark) Enjoy! :D

**(CURRENT DAY)**

The news about the Dursley's comes on the next morning. Harry blinks dumbly at the TV screen and finds himself stumbling back until he's sitting on the edge of his bed. A coldness sweeps through him and his stomach feels like lead.

The Dursleys... dead.

_How?_

No. Harry knew why. His stomach churns and he feels like he's going to be sick. He rushes over to the sink in the bathroom and splashes water on his face. His mind feels as if he's treading a very fine line and that he'll fall at any moment. Fuck. His relatives were dead.  _They had been murdered_.

Distantly, Harry is aware of an insistent knock on his door but he doesn't answer it — but then again, he doesn't need to. Hermione and Ron come rushing in and Harry has a face full of bushy hair as Hermione's arms wrap tightly around him.

"Oh, Harry!" She cries. "As soon as you were taken in, we tried to come and see you but they wouldn't let us." She pulls back and her eyes are full of worry and desperation. "We never — we never  _knew_!"

Harry feels a twinge of guilt rear it's ugly head and Hermione instantly picks up on it. She strengthens her hold around him while her empathy reaches out to try and soothe.

"How come you never told us, mate?" It's Ron who speaks and he sounds stung.

Harry untangles himself from Hermione and faces his friend.

"I know. I'm sorry," Harry replies. Ron frowns and his lips are pressed into a tight line.

"We would've helped you, you know. I just don't get why you couldn't trust us..." Ron says.

"I do!" Harry rushes to say, and feels the hurt of both his friends broadcasted clearly. "Look, I just couldn't risk anything — what if they took you in  _for knowing_?"

"Then we would've gone in!" Ron states and Hermione nods by his side.

Harry looks at the both of them and can't help but feel a small smile curve at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head and Hermione seems to take that as acceptance as the next thing she says is, "How are you feeling?"

Harry gives her a look and she just waves him off.

"You know what I mean," She says.

Harry sighs and collapses on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. He feels the mattress dip a moment later and looks up to see Hermione sitting next to him.

"We found out just before coming here," She continues softly and Harry catches Ron's eye who looks grim and sympathetic.

"What..." Harry's voice is scratchy. He clears it. "What happened? How did they — ?"

Hermione's eyes are full of sympathy when they turn on him. She folds his hands in hers and rests them on her lap.

"No one's said anything to us except for what we heard on the news. But Ron overheard some other Sentinels in the hall earlier. They say it was a single gunman who did it. Some time last night. Apparently whoever it was also got the ferryman too." Here she looks seriously into his eyes. "You do know why they were... why they got," She stumbles over the word and Harry just nods grimly.

"Yeah, I know. Dumbledore said this would've — that this could've happened."

Hermione looks questioningly and Harry replies, "Head Guide Albus Dumbledore of the Order."

Her eyes widen and he can hear Ron chime in, "Blimey!"

"Yeah..." Harry looks down at his feet and grits his teeth, feeling helpless. It's almost like a huge target is painted on his back now. People are being killed because of him. The Dursleys were assassinated because of him.

And whoever did it is  _after him_.

Hermione gently pats his arm.

"Harry," She says. "Harry, calm down."

Her voice is slightly strained and Harry realizes that his shields had let through some of his inner turmoil. His hands clasp hers tightly and he tries to reign in his emotions to save his friends from a possible swoon or Zone.

"Harry. Listen, mate," Ron speaks up for the first time and Harry latches onto the solid tone, albeit slightly unsteady after Harry's empathic power. "Nothing will happen to you. They're going to find this bloke, right? We're not going to let anyone top you off just yet."

Harry shakes his head, keeps shaking it as he abruptly gets up.

"No... No, look. You guys, if there's some kind of mad —  _man_  after me, I'm not going to let you two get hurt either. He's after  _me_. Alright? I don't want anyone else to sacrifice themselves — "

"Harry —" Hermione starts but Harry cuts her off.

"And don't think that just because I'm an Omega that I can't take care of myself either — !"

" _Harry_." Hermione's tone is curt and she looks sternly at him. "How could you think we'd think that? And Ron's right. We're not going anywhere."

"Yeah," Ron says, getting up as well. "So shut it, alright?"

Harry gives him a feeble smile in return. "You're both completely mental, you know that?"

Ron grins and slings an arm around him, and it's both awkward and comforting and just what Harry needs.

"Yeah, well. It takes two to know one apparently."

* * *

Tom calls on one of his sources for information. A chap called Pettigrew who happens to be rather _au fait_ with getting into difficult places. And just the man who might be able to get what Tom needs. Which is Ministry records on this  _Harry Potter_.

"I'm surprised you didn't come sooner. All secrets are electronically kept these days," Pettigrew says, as if he's looking to be petted for being so clever. Tom doesn't say anything and keeps a close eye on the slightly balding man as he clatters and clicks away at his computers.

Tom uses the opportunity to also take in the room. He takes note of exits (the door, window, and possibly the vent), weapons (pens, wires, a stapler, the lamp) and even the layout of the room in the off-chance of a physical altercation. (Though the possibility of Pettigrew getting one over on Tom is slim to none.) He absorbs the possibilities, his Sentinel eyes seeing everything. He admits to being no Sherlock Holmes; He makes no ingenious connections behind simple observations. But his strong senses need to stretch their muscles every now and then. If they don't, they can get out of control. And being what he is, Tom needs all the control he can get.

The balding man makes a snuffling noise at the computers and Tom's focus sharpens back on him.

"What is it," Tom says.

"Well, the MSGA security haven't made it easy to get into. Quite frankly, there's a ludicrous amount of encryption put on the file..." He clatters away at the keyboard again and Tom impatiently stands by while he tries to put a muffler on the grating sound.

"Yes, um, right," Pettigrew starts again. "Your lad seems to be kept up in some flats on Grimmauld Place."

"Which one."

His eyes dart around the screen before he stutters out, "Number twelve."

Tom takes in the information, already making plans in his head, when he remembers.

"You've been helpful, Peter," Tom says, as if in afterthought.

There is a thin sheen of perspiration on the sides of Pettigrew's forehead.

"I live to serve any member of the D.E., of course," The man replies. But Tom can hear the slight tremble of nervousness behind it and he gives a smile designed to put others at ease.

"Of course," Tom responds, and throws a wad of pound notes on the man's lap. "And the D.E. rewards loyalty such as yours."

He steps out on the bumbling words of gratitude.

* * *

Tom walks over to his unassuming silver Ford Fiesta parked on the curb and goes round the back. He lifts the boot and takes stock of what's on hand. Underneath the false floorboard of the trunk lies a case of his most precious weaponry. From rifles, an array of knives, three grenades, and even a machine gun, one would think he's going to war with this amount of equipment on hand. But he just likes to be prepared.

Tom sits in the car and goes through the information he has. As would be expected, his recent work on the white-collar stiff in the Ministry only doubled the security on Potter. (Frankly, anything less would have made him suspicious.) But Tom also knows they won't move him. It would be too risky. So he thinks he'll maybe pop round, do a quick survey, and do what he does best. Which is to wait, observe, and learn; The patterns, the habits, the weaknesses. The holes in the armour.

And then like a snake, he'll uncoil and strike with a single, deadly force.

* * *

Tom drives by Grimmauld Place and parks on the opposite side of the street a few flats down. Then he sits, and waits.

It takes twenty-six seconds before a constable comes up and knocks on his window.

"Apologies," Tom says in what he's made to be his 'upperclass English prat' voice. "Got a bit lost is all." It works, as the officer seems to find nothing wrong with the façade.

"You can't be round here, I'm afraid. I'll have to ask you to carry on, please, sir," The constable says in a stern tone.

"Oh, yes, of course. Terribly sorry. I'll be on my way just now."

 _Twenty-six_... Tom muses, and pulls out onto the road just as the mask melts from his face in a matter of a second.

* * *

"Harry? Are you alright? You look pale."

Hermione hovers over him, a delicate crease forming on her brow. Warm brown eyes hold worry and not a little bit of exhaustion. It's been weeks since Harry's been kept locked up in this place. The only times he gets any respite from the confining walls of the tiny flat are the semi-regular visits from Ron and Hermione. Harry still hates to be the reason for the tiredness on his friends' faces. The two are already doing so much for him by coming in after work when they can. The last thing he wants is to be a burden.

Harry sighs and takes off his clubmaster prescription glasses to rub the heal of his hands against his eyes.

"Yeah, 'Mione. Just got a bit of a headache, s'all. Maybe a little tired too," He answers, the strain evident in his voice. While he's certainly tired, Harry feels the compression on his head to be what's really wearing him out. He's been feeling it throughout the week — Faint ebbs of something dark and heavy every now and then.

God, he must finally be going crazy.

Hermione jolts him out of his brood with a sympathetic squeeze on his shoulder.

"Yeah, I heard hiding from hired guns can do that to a bloke," Ron pipes up from the couch.

Hermione gives Ron a sharp look over her shoulder but Harry's chuckling. It feels good to let go of some of the tension, even for a little bit. It lets Harry know that at least he's not alone in this.

"Thanks, mate," Harry says. "And seriously. Thank you guys for — you know..."

Ron waves him off and Hermione clucks her tongue.

"We're in this together now, Harry," She says. "We'd never leave you alone to struggle with this."

Harry gives her a crooked smile. "Yeah, I know."

Ron makes a gagging sound and Hermione slaps him on the arm to which he makes a show of being hurt. Harry sits and grins at his friends when a prominent throb makes itself known in the back of his skull. It then that he decides to call it in.

"Right, guys. I'm off to have a little lie down, if it's all the same to you," Harry says, and starts to get up when Hermione leaps up from the couch.

"Oh, of course! Just let us know if you need anything, okay? Would you like some nurofen? I'm sure I've got — "

"No, no, Hermione. I'm — fine. Really," Harry says and then involuntarily winces just as another sharp pang makes itself known. This time it comes from right behind his eyes. Hermione frowns and worries her bottom lip just as Harry catches Ron's eye over her shoulder. The redhead rolls his in sympathy.

"Oh, leave the poor man alone! He'll be fine," Ron says and tries to coax Hermione back onto the couch. Harry mouths a silent 'thank you' before he slips out of the living room to escape to his small bedroom.

When the door closes behind him, the pain in the back of Harry's head pulses and he bites down on a groan. Maybe he should take something for it after all. Sighing, Harry tries to focus on anything but the increasing pounding in his temples or the uneasy feeling that's creeping over him. It feels like an oncoming wave or tsunami. A ripple that starts out in the middle of the ocean only to suddenly gain power and speed when it reaches land. Right now Harry imagines it as the looming threat in the distance. The growing movement on the horizon where he's only able to stand and watch from the shore, helpless as it charges closer toward him.

Harry barely notices when he eventually dozes off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Three Sentinels mill around the kitchen and living room, occasionally chattering to one another, when a hollow tap echoes through the flat. They each look up in confusion when it comes again.

Someone is knocking on the front door.

One of them looks to the other and asks, "Did they schedule for a shift change already?" The other shrugs and the third sighs. He putters about for a moment before going to see who it is.

When he's at the door, the Sentinel sniffs once, pauses, then listens. There's nothing out of the ordinary except for an off-putting lack of a scent, and a calm, almost  _too faint_ heart beat.

Frowning, he calls through the door, "Who is it?"

There's no answer and the Sentinel's hackles raise. He reaches for his side-arm and keeps it aimed at the ground before he asks again:

"This is the police. Please state your name and intentions at this residence or we will have to ask you to leave immediately."

The other Sentinels have sensed the threat and take up positions in the hall behind him, all armed and ready.

Finally, an answers comes in the form of a smooth, male voice.

"I was hoping to find one Mr. Harry Potter. I've been looking for him for quite some time now."

"What business do you have with Mr. Potter?" The security Sentinel asks. "Sir, please step away from the door or we will —"

With a sharp  _CRACK!_  the door explodes in front of his eyes and sends splinters and chunks of wood flying. Bullets rain in through the door and one manages to embed itself in the first Sentinel's shoulder. With a cry, he slams back against the corner and clutches the wound while the others take cover and return fire.

"Protect the asset!" The first Sentinel tries to scream over the shots. One of them must have heard the command because Rogers is racing up the stairs. But before he can take a third step, he promptly collapses as a crimson stain begins to bloom on the back of his uniform shirt. The first Sentinel turns to see the figure of a tall, imposing male standing in what remains of the door. With groomed, jet black hair, he wears a trench coat and leather gloves of the same colour. A rifle swings at his side and radiates heat from the amount of rounds it's fired. Then cold, dark eyes turn on him. The security Sentinel's own widen just before a soft  _click_  of a suppressed pistol sounds and he neither sees nor thinks any more.

The third Sentinel is out of ammunition. Tom's counted. He quickly turns the corner into the living room and sees her hunched against the wall and fumbling to put a new round in her gun. She looks up and sees him, but it's too late.

With one fluid movement, Tom procures a blade from his sleeve cuff and has a neat little gash in the woman's throat in just half a second. Blood gushes forth and sprinkles his face with drops of ruby red. Tom closes his eyes briefly until the spray has stopped before prying the gun from limp fingers. He can hear the sound of shouts and commotion from further inside the flat and looks up to the ceiling where his next targets are no doubt located.

Tom empties the magazine and lets the bullets fall into the twitching, gasping Sentinel's lap. The gun follows and the woman can only watch, helpless, as her vision turns black.

Tom doesn't waste time in reloading the rifle, and pulls out the .22 suppressed pistol he used on the Sentinel at the door. He usually only reserves it for special occasions, but seeing as this is one...

Tom makes sure to be quiet as he climbs the stairs, knowing one of the three remaining targets is a Sentinel. As far he understands, none of them are armed. The Ministry clearly put too much faith in their security.

All is quiet except for two racing heartbeats. Tom frowns.

_Where's the third?_

He shakes off the question; His focus is only needed on the two right now. Once they're taken care of, he can then worry about the Omega.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I've mentioned this in the previous chapters but the 'MSGA' is the 'Ministry of Sentinel and Guide Affairs'. d(^u^)!


	5. Promised Guide Omega

Harry wakes up doused in sweat and his head exploding with a foreign emotion. It batters and bruises what he thought are quite stable and strong walls. Whoever he's sensing is definitely strong and powerful.

Harry slips off the bed and pads over to the door when it opens by itself, revealing Hermione. She pokes her head in smiles uncertainly at him.

"Hey," She says softly. "I thought you might still be asleep. Can I come in?" But Harry needn't answer because she steps into the room anyway. With a scrutinizing eye that looks like it might belong on Ron's mum, she takes him in.

"You look awful. Did you have a nightmare?" Worry tinges her voice now.

Harry gives her a slightly disbelieving look and says, "You mean you don't feel that?"

She frowns. "Feel what? What's wrong?"

Hermione is a Guide. She should be able to pick up something.

"All I feel is your anxiety, Harry. I could feel it from the other room," She says and clasps his shoulders in her hands. "Tell me what's going on." She tries to catch his eye but all Harry can think is how she could not possibly  _feel_   **—**  ?

But maybe it's just the after-effects of his dream. It must be it.

Warm arms wrap around Harry and he lets the other Guide seep away some of his tension. When she finally lets go, Harry sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair.

"It was just a dream, I guess," He says. But he still can't shake off the looming and oppressive presence that lies thick and heavy over him like a blanket. It feels like he's suffocating. Harry swallows and finds his hands are clammy with sweat. He opens his mouth to say something more when a series of what sounds like fire crackers being fired off comes from downstairs. The noise makes them both jump in fright.

A moment later and Ron charges into the room, his face a storm of intensity.

"Ron!" Hermione cries out in alarm.

"We need to get out of here! Someone's come to get Ha **—**  " He's interrupted again by another series of shots, and the knowledge of what they are sends fire racing through Harry's veins. After all this time sitting on the edge, it felt like he's suddenly falling.

"Let's go!" Harry shouts, and grabs Hermione to follow Ron out of the room. But Hermione tugs on his arm and won't move.

Harry turns on her, "Hermione, we have to go! NOW!"

"Harry, listen to me! We won't be able to get out like this. You need to try and stay calm, okay?" Harry is affronted by his friend telling him to remain calm. As if he's some kind of hysterical, crying child that needs to be coddled. He's mollified somewhat by her next words, though: "You have to try and concentrate. Try to suppress your emotions, put up a wall, and extend your empathy. You need to influence him a little, Harry. I'll try and do the same, okay?"

Harry nods and glances at Ron who looks about ready to fight tooth-and-nail with whomever might come through the door. Then the next thing Harry knows is he's being stuffed in a closet.

Barely a second later he hears the bedroom door burst open.

Harry closes his eyes, focusing on veiling his presence as best he can despite the tense silence that descends out in the room. His insides twist unpleasantly when a cold voice is heard.

"Where is he?" It says.

There's no reply and a low growl is emitted. Then the floorboards creak as the Alpha steps further into the room.

" _Where is Harry Potter_."

"Like bloody hell!" Comes Ron's yell, and then there's the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. Harry's heart leaps in his chest when he hears a soft crack and a howl of pain that turns to gasps for air. Hermione cries out but the sound is abruptly cut off  **—**  No, it's muffled. By a hand?

" _Stop that_." The cold voice says. "I know what you're trying to do. It won't work. So why don't you just tell me. Where. Is. Harry. Potter." Finally the hand must've been removed, because there's sniffing and hiccuping.

"D-Downstairs. He's in a room downstairs. I'll show it to you," A shaky voice pants out.

There's a long silence. And then, "You're lying."

"I'm no  **—**  " Hermione's voice is abruptly cut off by her own screams. A weak but feral sound of protest results and it must be Ron trying to do something despite being injured.

"Never lie to an Alpha, sweetheart," The foreign voice says. "They can always tell."

Harry's sweating by the amount of effort he's putting into holding up his shields. So far it's been enough to mask himself. (All those years concealing what he is had to pay off somehow.) But he doesn't know how long he can last, and is quickly beginning to feel the strain.  
Suddenly there is an ominous  _clack_  as a gun is unloaded and Harry tenses.

"I'm not going to ask again," The voice continues. Another rattle as the magazine is put back in place and the hammer pulled back. "You have three seconds."

A muffled sob.

_He can't let him kill Hermione. He's going to kill Hermione...! And who knew what's happened to Ron!_

"One..."

Harry's hands turn to fists at his side and his nails dig painfully into his skin.

"Two..."

Heart hammering in his chest like a machine gun, Harry closes his eyes shut tight. Then with everything he has  **—**

"Thr  **—**  "

Harry  _PUSHES_.

For a long moment there is silence. No one moves. Nothing happens.

Tom is suddenly finding it hard to focus. The woman in front of him seems uninteresting all of a sudden and his senses are confused. He  _swears_  he can smell... he can hear a heart... Is it a heart?

The woman in front of Tom is watching him so closely that she catches onto the sudden confusion in a matter of seconds. In an instant, she leaps up and scrambles out of the way.

"Get Ron!" An unfamiliar male voice shouts. It's strangely alluring. Tom distantly thinks he should do something about it, but it doesn't feel like it matters any more. It's like he's watching from outside of his body, everything hazy like a dream.

The sound of a door slams and reality crashes back into Tom with an all-consuming force.

An overpowering smell assaults the Sentinel and he wastes precious few moments simply trying to  _ **process**_  the new scent and rhythm of an additional heartbeat. He can vaguely recollect the sight of a man coming out of the closet, and then it hits him. With a growl, Tom leaps after them and tears down the stairs.

It's the Omega.

_How the fuck did he manage to get distracted?_  He's the best at his job because shit like this never happens to him. It's only a  _moment_  that he's incapacitated, but it's enough. Now the targets are getting away.

* * *

Tom catches up to them in the hall. He grabs the woman and roughly presses the barrel of his .22 Ruger into the head of bushy hair.

The other two freeze with their eyes on them.

"Get in the other room," Tom bites out. He finds himself subconsciously having to hold his breath just to keep himself from going cross-eyed with the alluring scent of the Omega only a few feet away from him.

The two obey and back up into the living room. Tom follows with the woman and once they're inside, he violently shoves her away to collide with the glass coffee table. It crashes under her and the redhead lets out a roar of anger. He charges at Tom despite the Omega's shouts of warning and there's a sickening crack as Ron ends up crumpled on the floor with a broken leg in addition to his arm.

A distressed whine distracts Tom and he looks up to meet with fierce green eyes. They glare at him and defiance meets with defiance. Tom purposefully maintains the eye contact as he lifts his pistol and aims it at the indisposed Sentinel on the ground.

Once again, a sudden onslaught of Guide power renders Tom completely paralysed.

The Alpha strains and rages against it. His hand shakes on the trigger for the first time in years and his body won't obey him.

He lets out a furious roar, "FUCK!" and flings his weapon to the side where it clatters against the ground. He turns to shoot a livid snarl at the Omega Guide and stalks toward him, pushing him up against the wall so that the head of wild black hair thuds painfully against it.

There's nothing Tom hates more than an unfinished job. But he seems to have no choice this time.

Tom's face is twists in rage while his hands fist in the Guide's shirt collar. He wants to throttle the other man, to watch as his life is squeezed out of him. But the sight of a rapid pulse beating beneath the skin of the Guide's neck derails him. And then Tom finds his body doing something else completely.

The Alpha's eyes latch onto the sweat trickling down the taut neck and, captivated by it's journey, Tom leans in to lick a path along that sweet taste. The bonding gland is so tantalizing under his tongue, he has to resist biting down with everything he has. His nose presses against the soft spot under the Guide's ear instead and inhales. The body against him stiffens under Tom's ministrations, and Tom doesn't blame him because  _what the fuck is actually happening?_  Since when does he deviate from his plans? The Guide just seems to scream ' **Mate, Protect, Bond** ', making anything else physically impossible.

Dark eyes look up into forest green ones and a low growl starts to make it's way up Tom's throat. The Guide's clear distress and unwillingness only riles the Sentinel in him more. Tom makes sure to press closer so they're joined everywhere, and his effort earns him a breathless gasp. The sound makes his blood sing and sets his nerves on fire.

His cell rings just then and the sound jars them both out of the moment. Tom backs away, but finds he cannot do it completely.

Keeping his eyes on the Guide, Tom finally pulls out his phone and answers it.

"Didn't off him yet, I hope?" The voice on the other end says by way of greeting. It's the D.E. receptionist  **—**  Nott. "You-Know-Who wants the guy alive, remember."

There's a beat of silence where Tom can only stare at the Omega, the electricity in his body still not cooled.

"Please tell me you haven't soiled the goods," Nott says in a exasperated but slightly surprised tone.

"Don't be thick," Tom snaps, but his voice betrays him and he grits his teeth in annoyance.

There's a crackle of static as a sigh comes through the line.

"Either way, it's not too much of a problem," Nott continues. "The boss just wants to run some diagnostics. He's a rare one."

Tom grunts in answer, not trusting his voice just yet.

"We're sending someone now. They'll be ready to pick up on the corner of Sardinia and Portsmouth street." Nott doesn't wait for a reply and the line goes dead.

Tom looks back at the Omega who's shivering slightly. Tom has to squash down on the involuntary urge to wrap himself around the Guide and bury him in his smell and warmth. Instead, he focuses on the woman who's dragged herself from the pile of glass and is slowly trailing a line of blood across the floor to where she's trying to get to the phone. Tom marches over to her and sees the Omega immediately move to stop him. Tom swings back around, gun in hand.

"Don't. Move," He warns.

The Guide takes a step back, hands raised. The high levels of stress in the lines of his body are clear though, and Tom finds it irksome that he even notices.

Turning back to the woman, Tom bends to grab a handful of her hair and yanks. She howls in pain as he hauls her upright, causing a spike of anguish and outrage from the Omega. Tom promptly throws her back down on a chair before duct taping her to it. He then goes over to the ginger and does the same, not caring about the broken arm or leg when he roughly ties them down too. After this is done, Tom then goes about covering every surface of the living room with a jug of gasoline he finds in one of the kitchen cupboards. Then crouching down by the corpse of one of the Sentinels in the corner, he takes out his lighter. The uniform ignites in mere seconds. It wouldn't take long for the rest of the place to catch fire too.

Tom straightens and huffs out a breath of slight exertion.

"Time to leave, Mr Potter," He says and raises a dark brow when the man doesn't immediately obey. "Move it!" He hisses and grabs Harry by the arm to manhandle him out the door. The Guide struggles ferociously in his grip.

"No! I'll go with you, I swear! Just  **—**  don't hurt them!" Harry pleads. "I beg you."

Tom regards him like a bird would an insect.

"Unless you want to be burnt to a black crisp, I'd suggest you start moving," He replies with quiet menace lacing every word. Harry looks back at Ron who looks as if he's having a hard time staying conscious, and then to Hermione who has tears streaming down her face. She seems to know what he's thinking, as she begins to shake her head. With a violent jerk, Harry rips out of Tom's grasp and rushes over to her.

Tom is faster.

He slams the Guide to the floor and they're soon grappling one another on the carpet. Tom's stronger, more skilled, and has Harry pinned in a moment. But Harry struggles like a mad thing underneath him and won't let up. Normally Tom would use violence to subdue his targets but finds it's almost impossible to harm this one. The fact infuriates him to no end  **—**   _He should be stronger than this._ But Tom keeps missing easy shots, easy access to places on Harry that wouldn't be lethal, but make the Omega submit. Yet to his endless frustration, he finds he can't lay a hand on him. Something holds him back. Something primal. Some need to  _protect_  instead of harm. It feels like trying to cut his own finger off, except that the current task feels exceptionally more difficult.

Tom is saved when a device rolls across the floor into the room and releases a green gas he recognizes as pheromones. He watches as the Guide below him becomes slow and sluggish, turning instantly compliant in his hands as a dazed and relaxed expression steals across his features.

A click of heels on the floor behind him has Tom turning to see Bella walking over. He suppresses a groan at the other D.E. member.

"Having trouble, are we?" Bella says in that annoying sing-song voice. Tom scowls at her.

"What took you so long?" He says. She grins but the expression is ruined by how her eyes pull wide and manic.

"Only got the order five minutes ago," She replies in mock sincerity. "See, they thought you might have a wittle itty bit of trouble making the meet-up."

Tom hauls Harry up from the floor and Bella crinkles her nose in intrigue.

"Mmm, there's a pretty scent under all that gasoline," She trills and sniffs again, languidly this time, as he passes. "Oooh, pretty indeed."

"Stop dawdling. We have about sixty seconds before this place turns to ash," Tom growls out, causing an exited giggle to erupt from the woman.

"You really do give me the shivers when you get all bossy like that," She says when a particularly aggressive muffled shout causes her turn to the other two in the room. "Who's the bird?" She says, eyeing Hermione with a distinctly uninterested but disturbing shine in her eye. Tom doesn't answer and heads out to the car to place Harry in the back seat where the Guide sprawls out with a blissful expression still on his face.

Something is off, though.

Tom glares at Harry's neck before leaning in and swiftly untying the collar from around the Omega's throat. There. Much better. Tom has to rip his eyes away from the sight before he gets into the driver's seat.

"Do we get to have a little play before we hand him over? He just smells so  _divine_ ," Bella coos when she gets into the passenger side. She almost licks her lips at the sight of a writhing and zonked out Omega in the back seat. Tom slams the car door shut on the driver's side.

"Don't. Touch." He hisses.

Her hand freezes just above Harry's face and she turns a feral grin on Tom.

"Aren't we touchy today. My, my... Don't tell me. Ickle Tommy Riddle is finally going to lay claim to someone?" She teases in a high-pitched voice, and leans back in her seat to inhale deeply just as Harry half mumbles, half groans something in the back. The car jerks violently as it pulls off the curb. "And an  _Omega_ , no less," Bella adds. She lets out a maniac cackle and Tom once again decides not to answer her goading. The woman is batshit and he has no time for her antics.

"Shut it. I'm trying to drive," Tom says through clenched teeth. And if his hands grip the steering wheel tighter than is necessary, well, that's no one's business but his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just imagine Bellatrix coming in at the end like [[link](http://www.reactiongifs.us/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/fire_community.gif)] and I've been laughing for 100 years I'm sorry.


	6. Mr. You-Know-Who It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So updates may be coming more slowly in the future as I've caught up to where I was at in constructing them. Now I'll have to construct, write, then edit x1000 (Oh joy!).

A muffled, agonized scream rips through Grimmauld Place as Ron pulls his already mangled arm free from the tape. Hermione tightly shuts her eyes at the sound, unable to do anything except use what Guide power she has to try and soothe her Sentinel's pain.

Another excruciating tug and Ron mercifully manages to free the limb. He pants at the exertion and takes a moment to try and overcome the searing pain that frays his nerves. At the thickening cloud of smoke in the room, he holds his breath and tries to stay concious. Then with a final, harrowing jerk and a shout, his other arm is free.

"Shit!" Ron hisses. With his one good arm he begins to work on his bound legs. Once they're freed, he manages to hobble over to Hermione and cut her loose.

When she is free from her bonds, Hermione throws herself at Ron in a fierce hug. The latter takes reassurance in her smell though it's now tinged with her blood.

"Harry's gone!" Hermione sobs. Ron nods grimly into her hair, holding her close with one arm.

"We'll find him, 'Mione. Don't worry," He says and can just hear sirens wail in the distance above the roaring fire around them.

* * *

 **'MISSING OMEGA** — **MINISTRY DESPERATELY SEARCHES'**

 _"Harry Potter_ — _a Guide, recently discovered to be rare Omega_ — _has been reported missing from Ministry care today. Sources say they are unable to see how this was managed, as head chairman Cornelius Fudge claimed top of the line security and staff from the notable Basilisk Security Company was used. A statement from Mr. Voldemort himself was given earlier today_ — _"_

The man himself appears before an array of microphones and flashing cameras. Dressed in an impeccable charcoal grey suit, he stands before them with a calm and demanding presence. His face is smooth and almost featureless while his words are strong and practised.

> _"The event of Mr. Potter's disappearance is troubling. We can only hope that the man is unharmed and in good health. While here at Basilisk Security, we have a number of people looking into just what might have happened for such a grave mishap to be possible."_

The interview clip cuts off to be replaced with the news anchor once more.

_"Voldemort then proceeded to claim that any error committed by the company is unlikely, as the Ministry of Sentinel and Guide Affairs may have missed something crucial for the Omega Guide to have been taken so easily from their facility."_

Harry watches the news report from his little room — his  _prison cell_. It's sparse and seems to be slightly proofed against too much empathic or sensory activity. Harry's seen no one since he woke up from his pheromone induced swoon. But he instantly felt the loss of his Ministry collar. Then there's the addition of a piece of cotton and tape hiding a small puncture in his inner elbow. Someone had clearly taken his blood, and Harry wonders not for the first time just who he's been abducted by. He can just about feel them when he concentrates; A buzz of emotions. Mostly Sentinels. And they seem excited about something.  
Possibly the fact that they've caught themselves and Omega.

Harry finds his situation no better than it was with the Ministry. Only in Grimmauld Place he had Ron and Hermione, at least. Now it's like he's truly in the wolf's den.

A sharp stab of pain pierces Harry then, leaving him momentarily breathless.

_Oh God, Ron and Hermione..._

Harry's shoulders shake and he desperately wants to scream, to cry — to do  _anything_  — but knows that his already brittle shields won't hold for a second. And if they fall, then every Sentinel, Guide, or Mute in the building would know how much they've taken from him. So Harry carefully shuts off his mind instead, and flicks off the telly. For a while he just sits there and stares blankly at the screen.  _What's going to happen to him now?_

The rattle of the door unlocking startles Harry out of his thoughts just as a heavy and cloying presence hits him like a wave. It's a Sentinel. Harry's heart jumps in his throat and he moves to stand on the other side of the bed just as the door opens.

"Well hello there, love," Says a man with a closely shaved head. Stubble shadows his heavy jaw and his eyes have a lecherous glint. Harry can't help but catch the way they flicker over his frame hungrily and he shivers. The Sentinel shuts his eyes in bliss. "My, they weren't wrong about you, were they?" He purrs, almost to himself, and lets out a breathy laugh.

"What do you want," Harry says, feeling immediately on edge, and wills his voice to sound unaffected. If this Sentinel thinks he's going to bond with him, Harry isn't about to make it easy. Though he may be an Omega and his empathy is worn and in tatters, Harry's far from helpless.

The Sentinel's eyes snap open and zero in on the dark haired Guide.

"Feisty too, eh?"

Irritation bubbles up in Harry and his fingers twitch to punch the guy in the face. But then he finally gets to the point.

"None of that now. I've come to collect you for your débutante ball," The Sentinel snickers.

"What?" Harry grits out.

"You-Know-Who. Wants. To see you. For. 'Imself. Ain't you a lucky one?"

Harry doesn't answer and his hands make fists at his side. He still has no idea who this guy even is, but knows now that it's some kind of boss. Mafia maybe? Harry hasn't the faintest.

"Well, come on then. I'd hate to have to lay my filthy hands on something so precious," The Sentinel leers. "Though I s'pose I'll have to... if I must."

This eventually spurs Harry into motion and he reluctantly marches round the bed and towards the door. Just as he gets to it though, his pathway is cut off by the Sentinel's arm blocking the way. His face leans in close to Harry's who has to fight down the urge to shove him away. The Sentinel takes a deep sniff and grins.

"Very nice," He says and Harry suppresses the revolted shudder, swallowing hard.

"Don't fucking touch me," Harry spits and pushes past the arm. The Sentinel follows close behind.

"Right this way, love."

* * *

When Harry enters a spacious front hall, he's hit by an overwhelming amount of thought and emotion. His vision swims a bit and causes the number of people gathered there to double. A large number of Sentinels (and some Mutes) stand around talking to one another, but when they see Harry come in they all stop to look at him.

Harry's face pales when he sees the familiar faces of his employers, the Malfoys.

Fuck. Somehow it makes sense that they'd be working for some corrupt Omega kidnapper, but it still doesn't lessen his shock.

Harry's eyes then catch another unexpectedly familiar face and he stops dead.

His previous shock wars with confusion before anger flares hot and molten in his chest.

Harry glares hatefully at the black, greasy haired man in the corner who's clearly trying not to be seen.

It's the same man he saw walking the corridors of the Ministry when he was there. But for the life of him, Harry can't remember his name.  
Suddenly everything feels like a tremendous betrayal. Are the Ministry behind this? Did they give him over to someone else? Or had they simply been infiltrated like Dumbledore said...?

"Very good, Jugson. Thank you for retrieving our guest."

It's Lucius' voice that speaks, and Harry turns to face him. The man regards him like one would a fine wine. Beside him, Draco has his trademark smirk plastered on his face while his platinum blond head shakes back and forth slightly.

"I fucking knew there was something off about you, Potter," Draco sneers, and with just a few steps, he's getting into Harry's personal space. The blond Sentinel inhales deeply and laughs, grey eyes gleaming. "A bloody  _Omega_. I should have known..." He licks his lips and then Lucius' cane is gently thudding against his chest before he can pounce on Harry.

In the far back of the room, a quiet, dark-haired man stands in watch. He unclenches his fists with tremendous effort and self control.

Lucius tuts. "No touching, Draco," The elder admonishes, although his eyes rake over Harry with just as much interest. "This is Mr. Voldemort's present. We wouldn't want to ruin it before he has the chance to, now would we?"

The name drop is another shock to Harry and he tries to process it.

Voldemort's behind this? Voldemort, the CEO of Basilisk Security Towers?

Then the second bit of information sinks in and Harry tries to hold tightly onto his panic and not to let it escape to the surface. He'd rather die than be 'ruined' by some murdering Sentinel.

A subtle motion ripples through the room then. Faces turn expectant while others' heads cock to the side as if hearing something.

This is soon confirmed when a moment later the doors to the hall open and a tall, imposing figure enters. His presence commands silence and the entire room falls into an obedient sobriety.

Harry knows the man's face anywhere. Has seen it on billboards, magazines, and the news so many times. Everyone in the country would recognize the striking but unsettling man. Though Harry never would've guessed how much of a presence he has in person. His Alpha scent and power radiates from him in force, seeping the room in it so that everyone practically bows under it's weight.

Voldemort's alien eyes scan the room coolly before they land on Harry. The Guide feels paralysed by the stare and a sudden, jabbing pain seers through his mind. Harry doubles over and clutches his head as he cries out. A few Sentinels move as if to aid him, helpless to stand idle when an Guide (much less an Omega) is in pain. But with a single, sharp motion of his hand, Voldemort has stopped them.

When the pain slowly subsides to a dull ache, Harry shakily gets to his feet with the help of a firm hand on his shoulder. When he looks up, however, he finds he's staring straight at the Alpha who kidnapped him in the first place. Harry jerks back from the touch as if burned, but the hold only tightens and stops him from pulling away completely. When Harry stops struggling, the hand eventually drops.

"Apologies," Comes a slithering voice, and Harry turns back to see Voldemort regarding him coolly. "The ability is somewhat new to me and I'm afraid I don't know my own strength."

Harry frowns in confusion, wondering what the hell is going on, when he freezes. The words finally sink in and his breath leaves him in a startled gasp as it hits him. It can't be —

Voldemort is a  _Guide?_

It's impossible. Everyone knew him to be an Alpha Sentinel.

Yet he's able to pierce through Harry's mind just like a...

"That's right. I can see you've figured out what I am," The voice hisses. "And I am the first. A true paragon of what science can do."

"I don't understand. What are you?" Harry demands, although he has a suspicion.

A smile stretches across Voldemort's face but it looks plastic and obscene.

"I, Mr. Potter, am a Hybrid. Both Sentinel and Guide," He says. "And Alpha to boot."

There is a titter around the room and Voldemort allows it before waving them silent once more. "Are you impressed? I must say, I wasn't expecting someone like you," The Hybrid continues. "So... scrawny. But you certainly gave one of my best men a run for their money." Voldemort glances over Harry's shoulder at someone — and it's the same Sentinel who helped him up. Dark eyes stare back at him but the pale and handsome face is impassive. "But I'm sure we'll get along just fine. In time, you'll learn what a privilege it is to be bonded to such a superior specimen such as myself."

Harry's eyes widen at Voldemort's words and he begins to take a step back. But before he can go anywhere, he's descended upon and struggles helplessly in Voldemort's iron grip. The other man is far too strong and it only hurts Harry to fight back. (Though it doesn't stop him from trying.) Voldemort's hands clench painfully hard on Harry's shoulder and he yanks his head to the side by grabbing a fistful of hair and exposing his neck. Harry can't help the rapid, trembling breaths , fearful of what Voldemort would do.

But then that sickly weight that stabbed through his mind before is creeping inside his thoughts. Harry tries to shield himself and pulls up whatever barrier he can against the other half-Guide. But it's no use — Voldemort slips in like a virus, probing, infecting his emotions with his own false reassurances and suggestions. Harry finds himself lulled into a induced sense of calm and security. His limbs grow heavy and his body limp and compliant. Voldemort grins wolfishly at his apparent success and stares down at Harry's neck. No doubt eyeing the pulse where one would place a bond bite. Distantly, Harry knows he should be panicking — this is not what he wants. He's never wanted to be bonded. But his body and mind aren't responding.

But just then Harry catches onto a pair of dark eyes trained fiercely on Harry and he wonders what the Sentinel could be thinking. It's a strange thought and Harry wonders why he cares. But he finds that when he does, he's able to push back a little more against the intrusive presence in his mind. It doesn't belong there, and Harry cringes and squirms in the iron grip.

Voldemort shakes him non too gently.

"Look at me now, precious. Yes, that's good," He smiles down at Harry, all razor sharp teeth. "You'll do excellently. Such potential. Such power. I can smell it on you. Your mind is also very formidable, although it is weakened at the moment."

And just like that, Harry's let go. The sickening presence pulls out of his mind and Harry stumbles a bit. But then a strong pair of arms are there and the feel of them is somehow reassuring, though Harry knows it shouldn't be. He moves away somewhat reluctantly and rubs his bruised flesh as he glares hatefully at Voldemort.

"You're insane if you think I'd ever bond with you," Harry grates out.

Voldemort raises a hairless brow and an explosive laugh erupts from his thin lips. Then just as soon as the sound arrives, it's abruptly cut off.

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter, little Omega."

* * *

Harry's returned to his 'room' and kept there for another day. He feels himself nearing his next Heat cycle and wonders how on earth he's going to survive it. Or if he even will.

Maybe Voldemort is waiting to bond with him until then.

Harry shudders and pushes the thought away. He has to get out of here.

He's surprised once again when the door opens. But instead of the seedy Sentinel ('Jugson' he learns) who usually comes to give him food, it's the Alpha who brought him here in the first place.

Harry stiffens in his seat by the window and watches wearily as the tall, imposing man comes in. Dark eyes never leave his form and Harry self-consciously feels the strength of his shields just in case. They have healed quite a bit during the past two days but aren't as strong as they should be.

The Sentinel pulls out a chair to face Harry by the window and sits down, hands clasped in his lap like he's about to give an interview.

Harry doesn't say anything, just waits in tense silence. The moment stretches to the point where Harry feels like a rubber band that's in danger of snapping.

"Did you know," The Sentinel says eventually, and his voice is smooth like silk. "That cats kill for pleasure?" It's a contrast from what Harry remembers he sounded like in Grimmauld place where it was cold and menacing. Now it is calm and polite.

The Sentinel looks at Harry who can only stare back, completely thrown by the question. Harry swallows and tries to make his voice work but it comes out a croak.

"No," He replies.

What the fuck did this guy want? Harry thinks.  _Why is he here?_

The Sentinel crosses his legs and the toe of his expensive leather shoes flick up and down slightly, reminding Harry of the very animal he speaks of. The gaze finally leaves Harry to focus on another corner of the room — or rather, he seems to survey it — eyes never pausing for too long on one particular place.

"Most people think they kill to eat," He continues in a distracted tone. "They used to. Their ancestors did. Their cousins still do." Harry does not see the point of this random fact and remains silent. He doesn't want to play games any more. He wants to get out.

"What do you want from me?" Harry bites out. "Are you here to make sure I don't go insane before the bonding ritual? Because it's not working."

A dark brow lifts curiously. "'Bonding ritual'?" The Sentinel repeats, and the handsome mouth ticks upwards slightly. "That's certainly one way to put it."

"Then what is it?" Harry snaps.

The Sentinel's piercing eyes flicker toward him and Harry feels like he's being x-rayed. It makes him squirm.

"Your Heat is nearing." It's a statement. Not a question. Harry huffs and looks pointedly out the window.

"Yes, thanks so much for telling me," Harry grumbles.

"Then you know we can all sense it. You're not very good with suppressing it, are you."

Harry's jaw clenches and he refuses to answer. But he doesn't need to. The chair creaks and Harry looks back to see the Sentinel leaning forward. A long, slender, capable-looking hand extends out to the other who stares at it in bewilderment.

"The name's Tom."

Harry doesn't take the proffered hand.

"Good to know," Harry snarls. "Now I have something to call the person who killed my relatives and friends."

Tom doesn't so much as bat an eye. His sculpted face is completely still but the hand eventually drops back into his lap. He watches Harry for another agonizing moment before speaking again.

"They're not dead," He says.

Harry's head jerks back to face him, "What?"

"Your friends. They're not dead."

Harry stares, and feels an irrepressible flood of relief wash over him. The Sentinel "Tom" seems to sense it and settles back in his chair with what might have passed as contentment on any normal person. But this man isn't normal. Harry's witnessed what he's capable of first-hand, and it is frightening.

"Can't imagine your boss is too happy about that," Harry says with a dark sort of satisfaction.

"No," Tom replies simply, and his eyes go back to roaming the room. "We don't 'do' loose ends." After their second scan, Tom's eyes finally come to rest back on Harry and stay there. Harry doesn't miss the way the pupils are dilated and wonders whether it's because of Tom's superior vision or the Omega pheromones floating about.

"So why are you really here?" Harry tries again. This time, he manages to get an answer to his question.

"I wanted to see if I could offer you an...  _arrangement_  of some sort."

Harry tenses up again. "What kind of arrangement?" He asks.

"One that would benefit us both, I think. In the long term. You see, you're out of options here, Harry, and I think you know that. I know it. Everyone knows it," Tom replies. "You'll be bonded to my employer very soon, and when you do you'll become part of his experiment in helping him achieve a true 'Hybrid'. But make no mistake, your uses will soon wear out. Unless... Unless you choose to bond with someone else."

Harry sneers, "I suppose that would be you then?"

"Yes," Tom says simply. "In exchange for a bond with me, you'll have complete protection. I need nothing more. You may live your life — _relatively_ —the same. Only without being bonded to a genetic monstrosity."

Harry blinks. Is this a trick? Is he being observed right now and tested? They must have cameras watching him. This man wouldn't be talking about defying his boss so openly and in front of him like this. Would he?

Harry scoffs, "Piss off."

Tom doesn't move or respond verbally. Instead, he simply gets up after a moment and walks over to the door.

When he reaches it, he turns to say over his shoulder, "I'll let you sleep on it."

 _Sleep on it my arse_ , Harry thinks as the door clicks shut. Like hell is he going to be bonded to any psychopathic Alpha Sentinels or Hybrids.

Once again, his need to escape ticks urgently in him.

* * *

That night Harry impatiently waits for one of the D.E.'s to come by with his meal. It's only around 7 o'clock when the slimy presence finally arrives.

Harry's there when the door to his room opens, standing at attention. Jugson eyes him warily when he comes in, but always with a glint of definite interest.

"Been waiting for me all this time, precious? How nice."

Harry swallows. "I have."

The answer catches the Sentinel off guard and he straightens from placing the tray of food on the small table in the corner of the room. He regards Harry with outright suspicion now.

"Oh yeah?" He says, and his tongue flicks out to run along the front of his teeth as he eyes Harry up and down. "You know, you're looking especially delicious today, might I say."

The reply is unhesitating — "I wouldn't want to disappoint my Sentinel."

The clear invitation in Harry's voice throws Jugson for a moment and he frowns. Suspicion, however, soon turns to aggression and Harry's soon slammed up against the wall with a force that has the Guide's teeth clicking together painfully. Jugson's snarling face is so close to Harry's that the smell of the alcohol he drank before is pungent.

"What you up to, eh? You like playing games? Well, I can show you a little game, love. It's called — " He doesn't get to finish his sentence because Harry's subtly pushed all his empathy into piercing the Sentinel's mind. It's almost too easy, and at first Harry revolts at the initial touch of being in such a filthy, diseased place. But he finds his objective fairly quickly, and manages to force a Zone.

Slipping out of the Sentinel's mind, Harry escapes from the now loose hold and takes a step away from the wall. Cautiously, Harry moves around Jugson until he's almost at the door. He then glances back at Jugson who sways slightly on his feet, eyes glazed and vacant.

"Oi! What the bloody hell d'you think you're doing?!"

Harry whips around to see Alecto Carrow, one of the Mutes assigned to keep guard outside his room. She locks eyes with Harry before she lunges. Harry leaps back until he hits the table in the corner and remembers what's on it. He reaches back, grabs the first cold, metal thing — a fork — and promptly runs it through Carrow's palm. She shrieks in pain and clutches her hand but Harry knows it won't stop her for long. She's just beginning to pull it out when Harry makes a grab for the lamp. Gripping it's neck, he swings his arm back and brings it hurtling forward to where it collides with side of Carrow's head in a dull  _thunk!._ She instantly drops to her knees and clutches the side of her head with her wounded hand.

"You bitch!" She roars, blood pouring simultaneously from her head and hand.

Harry runs before she begins to stumble after him.

* * *

Harry's somewhere on the second floor when he gets completely lost.

"Fuck!" He hisses, heart pounding like a jack hammer in his chest. He's all too aware that his scent practically makes him a beacon, and they'll find him soon if he doesn't move now. Making a quick decision, Harry runs down a corridor and prays. If nothing else, he hopes it will get him far enough away at the very least.

But he hasn't gotten far when he's suddenly accosted by the very same Sentinel he was hoping to avoid.

Tom stands there in the middle of the hall with two others and regards him with a strange glint in his dark eyes.

Without thinking too much about it, Harry lifts the gun and aims it at the Alpha Sentinel.

Tom smiles in response.

"Go on then," He says calmly. The other D.E. members glance at the Alpha with a hint of worry, clearly wondering if Tom's mental. But Harry can see Tom knows he won't do it.

The moment Harry hesitates is when something feral and victorious flashes through Tom's eyes, and then in the next he's on Harry and wrestling the gun out of his grip with ease.

"Let go of me, you bastard!" Harry shouts, kicking and yanking on Tom's arm around his neck. Tom doesn't let up. If anything, his hold tightens like a python ready to snap him in two. Then the cold metal of the gun's nozzle is pressing against Harry's head and stills any more protests. Harry breathes heavily into the ensuing tense silence.

"There we are," Tom says in a low, almost soothing manner. The strangest thing is that the tone makes Harry's muscles relax a fraction, and he finds himself resenting the Sentinel for it.

Then there's a tender brush of lips near the gun at his temple and Harry's eyes widen while his body responds enthusiastically, almost leaning into the touch. (And seriously _, fuck these Omega hormones,_ Harry thinks.)

Tom, meanwhile, is tempted to taste the fear, arousal and challenge in the sweat on Harry's brow.

But Harry isn't _his_ now, is he. He belongs to  _Voldemort_.

Something feral knots in Tom's gut. Something bone-deep that cries out  _who dare take his claim from him_. Tom lifts the gun away from Harry's throat and points it at his colleague, Travers.

"What the fuck are you doing, Tom?" The question is punctuated by a loud bang like the slamming of a door when Tom pulls the trigger.

The other D.E., Gibbon, can only stare in shock before another shot fires off and he's down as well.

But Tom is sloppy. The aim is inexperienced. It's not the work of Voldemort's top dog, Tom Riddle. But perhaps that of a wild card like Harry Potter. He even gives Harry the gun before he lets him go with a low word of "Go" in his ear. He reluctantly shoves the Guide away from him despite his instincts telling him to pull him closer.

Harry stumbles and looks back at Tom and then to the gun in his hands. His emerald eyes are wild and confused and Tom braces himself for the moment —

Ah, yes, there it is.

Harry raises the gun — or seems to think about it. But he's wasting time. Escape or kill Tom? The Alpha can only wait in tense silence for his answer.

And just as Tom think he's won again, a strange thought seems to flash through the Guide's eyes. And not for the first time meeting this man, Tom hesitates. Could he have been wrong? He's only able to draw in a breath before —

_Crack!_

The bullet rips through the side of his leg, skimming it, but not without piercing flesh.

Tom curses furiously just as Harry says, "That's for my friends, you prick."

And then the Omega is gone, turning on his heel and escaping.

Tom watches as the green-eyed man races off and can't help a giddy thought bubble up in his mind despite the searing pain in his leg.

_His Omega is a vindictive little shit._

Tom has to hold himself back with everything he has from giving chase, and instead pulls out his cell to inform the D.E. on the other end, "The asset's got away."


	7. Potter On Pills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This chapter was reluctant to be written for some reason. Nevertheless, it's here! I hope you enjoy. xx

Harry doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know where he's going. All he does is run. He races across the field behind the estate and into the thick wood beyond it. He stumbles once but forges ahead, unrelenting, until his lungs burn and his chest heaves. Harry's feet feel numb and wobbly from carrying him so far and he collapses against a tree at one point to gasp in lungfuls of air as the bark of the tree bites into his back and twigs and rocks dig into his shins. Everything is pitch black and silent except for his frantic breaths. He tries to quiet them somehow, afraid he may still be within a Sentinel's range of hearing though he must be miles from the house by now.

_Where the fuck is he anyway?_

Harry looks around but all he sees is dark forest. Where did Voldemort choose to build his little Omega prison? The arse end of nowhere? Harry struggles to his feet, determined to keep going until he finds something. Anything would be better than getting caught by Voldemort or one of his D.E.'s.

Harry pushes on, nothing but the rhythmic sound of his feet and breaths keeping him company as he goes. Every now and then he stops, convinced he hears something. Is that a twig snapping? Or an animal? Are those shadows moving? It's too still. Too quiet. Harry thinks he might go mad if he doesn't find something soon.

* * *

To say that Voldemort is angry would be an understatement. 

Tom sits off to the side and has his leg bandaged by one of the hired first-aids Voldemort has in the house and watches the bald, sharp-faced man look around at his D.E.'s with an unhinged look in his eyes. The energy he exudes is oppressive, ominous and dark.

"How could you have let this happen. To let such a crucial thing to slip from your incapable hands — !" Voldemort hisses into on of his D.E.'s face and they flinch back, body shrinking under the Alpha Hybrid's scorching fury. Voldemort continues to rant and rave at his followers for a good minute or so when Tom finally steps forward. 

"Sir," Tom says. 

Voldemort's cold eyes swing to meet his and narrow dangerously. Thin lips that were previously twisted into a grimace transform into a sickly grin. 

"Ahh, you have a proposal for me, Tom? Or perhaps you'd like to take the responsibility for such a grave mistake to have happened," Voldemort says. 

Tom lowers his eyes, a subtle motion that allows Voldemort to know he submits to his authority as the true Alpha. (Though Tom repels at the action inwardly.  _Soon_ , he thinks.  _Soon he will no longer have to bow down to this megalomaniac_.) 

"No, sir," Tom replies. "I'd like to correct the mistake." 

A hairless brow raises at these words. "Oh? Are you volunteering to catch my prize?" Voldemort asks.

"I am. The more time wasted, the farther the asset escapes our reach," Tom explains. It's an obvious statement. But he's not surprised Voldemort needs to be reminded of it. The man is too focused on punishment and not enough on getting things done. A flaw that Tom hopes will be his downfall one day. 

Voldemort nods slowly as if trying to shake away the fog of his fevered anger. Tom wouldn't be surprised if the man hasn't already lost some of his sanity with all the experimentation and surgery he's done on himself. Voldemort's eyes then briefly glance down at Tom's leg. 

"Just a flesh wound. Sir," Tom explains.

A nail-biting second passes where the possibilities of how Voldemort could respond are both terrifying and endless. The answer arrives in a simple question for now.

"Always the good soldier is it, Tom?" The Hybrid's voice slithers. Tom doesn't answer. He knows Voldemort doesn't want one. Instead he looks at a point somewhere above Voldemort's shoulder and hopes that whatever comes next will be over with quickly. But just as ever, Voldemort is far too unpredictable. 

The tall, imposing man raises his sharp chin and regards Tom, unblinking. His slit-like gaze is far too calculating and probing. Tom knows what will happen a second before it does —

A harsh presence crashes through him with all the finesse of a charging rhinoceros. Tom can already feel the nasty headache the intrusion will leave behind when Voldemort's done with his interrogation. The abrasive presence scratches and picks like tiny insects at Tom's thoughts. But he's strong and pulls up only what Voldemort wants him to see: Loyalty. Submission. Devotion. Fear. 

Everything constructed; All of it a lie. 

If Voldemort had been a more skillful (see: 'natural') Guide then it wouldn't have worked. But fortunately for Tom, he's not. The illusion is a success and Voldemort slams out of his mind with a teeth-grinding force. Tom has to close his eyes briefly at the pain before he looks up again. Voldemort seems temporarily placated with what he finds.  

"You are faithful. And far more competent than your colleagues here. Keep this up and you might have a place beside me one day. As you already know, loyalty to the cause is greatly rewarded." 

Tom inclines his aching head in understanding. 

Voldemort resumes his stalking for a few paces before straightening to his full height once more.

"I think it's time we send the best," Voldemort says, and his sharp gaze turns to look at Tom again. It is both too careful and too searching. Tom has nothing but to try and throw it off by playing the loyal follower and turning on his heel to obey the order. He can't have Voldemort suspect anything. Not now. Not yet. 

Tom's made it to the end of the hall when he hears an agonized scream accompanied by the sounds of Voldemort's low growls and the thump of limbs and cracking of bones. It seems that the others haven't escaped punishment as easily. But the threat still echoes through the house after Tom, and he knows it's meant for him just as much as it is for the others: 

_Fail me again and there will be consequences._

Tom vows to make sure nothing like that will happen. He's been too careful to let it all go now. 

As he walks, Tom checks that his firearm has enough bullets even though he knows he won't need them. He walks briskly out to the back of the estate and then to where the woods lay beyond. If he focuses, he can still smell the faint trace of his — of  _Voldemort's_  — Omega.

Tom continues past the line of trees and stops. He's stock still and slows his breathing almost to a halt before cocking his head slightly to listen.

Tom stretches out his hearing past the trilling of the insects, the shrill cry of a woodland fox, and the other various songs of the night, until he reaches the steady thrum of his prey's heart. The beat is rapidly becoming familiar and it pulls him like an invisible thread leading him straight to his target. Tom's eyes snap open and the edge of his mouth curves upwards in a ghost of a smile. 

"Found you, little Omega," He murmurs into the quiet hush. Without hesitation, Tom gives into the tugging sensation and shoots off like a bullet into the night. He is silent as a whisper, the rhythm of the Omega's heartbeat echoing in his ears like a bewitching song.

* * *

Harry eventually stumbles across a road. He feels an enormous rush of relief at the sight of the highway and waves frantically at a truck zooming towards him in the distance. Heart in his throat, Harry watches as it comes close and slows to a stop just on the other side of the road.

 _Thank Christ,_ Harry thinks.

A burly man with a great big bushy beard and eyebrows leans over to call out the passenger side window, "Everythin' alrigh'!"

Harry immediately rushes up to the truck and calls back in.

"Hi! D'you mind giving me a lift?" Harry says breathlessly. "I'm trying to get to a hotel or a gas station. Just anything, really — "

"'Course! Don't see why not. Let's hop in with yeh, then," The man replies.

Harry releases an explosive sigh of relief. "Thank you so much."

He swings open the door and clambers up to sit in the passenger's seat. He slams the door shut and immediately casts a wild look in the rear and side view mirrors. Unfortunately he doesn't possess a Sentinel's keen eyes but it looks as if no one's following him just yet.

Harry's leg jiggles up and down and he squirms in his seat as the truck finally rumbles down the road again. Harry doesn't take his eyes off the side view mirror until they're a good few miles down the highway and then turns to see a bushy eyebrow lifted up in curiosity and worry.

"Are yeh sure there's nothin' wrong? Yeh lookin' a tad peaky, if yeh don't mind me sayin'," The man says.

"Oh, uh. I just got lost and my car broke down. Then my phone died, so..." Harry trails off, not knowing how to explain himself. He just hopes the man won't pry further.

"That's a right shame, that is. It's a good thing I came along when I did, eh? What's yer name, lad?"

Harry hesitates for the briefest of seconds before answering truthfully. Something tells him he can trust this man. "H-Harry. My name's Harry."

The man doesn't seem to attach any meaning to the name, and continues on to say, "Well, Harry. My name's Rubeus Hagrid but yeh can just call me Hagrid."

Harry smiles, but his eyes are still too worried. "Thanks, Hagrid. For doing this."

"Oh it's not a problem!" Comes Hagrid's kindly reply. Then comes the inevitable: "So what's a lad like yerself doin out in the middle o' nowhere, eh? There's nothin out here but a few o' them fancy houses belonging to famous peoples n' such." The man chatters. Harry chews on the inside of his cheek and wonders whether or not - and how much - to tell the other man. Someone had to know about what the hell is going on in case something happened to him, right?

"I was kidnapped."

Bushy eyebrows disappear into Hagrid's hairline and Harry can see the warm beady brown eyes beneath them.

"What's that?! You were - ? I don't believe my own ears. Who would do such a thing?"

Harry swallows. "Voldemort."

"Voldemort? Voldemort..." The man frowns and takes a hand off the wheel to scratch at his beard. "You would'n happen to be speakin' o' that fellow who runs that fancy company now, would yeh?"

"Yes. That's him," Harry says darkly.

The man shakes his head and his large meaty hands tighten on the steering wheel, causing them swerve ever so slightly off the road until he corrects it again.

"I don't believe it...!" Hagrid cries once again, and Harry tenses until he realizes that the man means it more in disappointment and anger than actual disbelief. He glances at Harry then, and his eyes are kind and full of understanding. Harry feels himself instantly soothed and thankful. "Don' yeh worry, 'Arry. We'll get yeh some place safe."

Harry sighs and feels the hot prickle at the corner of his eyes. "Thank you," He says, and means it.

"It's the least I can do. Why don' yeh have a good rest now. Yeh look worn."

Harry nods, finding himself already getting comfortable in the seat.

"Will you wake me when we get there?" Harry asks tiredly.

The man nods his head. "Don' yeh worry," He repeats. "You jus' rest."

Harry leans his head against the back of the seat and his eyes are slipping closed of themselves, his mind being taken over by an exhausted sleep.

It isn't until he's being gently shaken awake that Harry realizes he'd fallen asleep against the window. He jumps, mind instantly alert and heart racing. He sees the vaguely familiar face of the truck driver who's raised both his hands in the air in a placating gesture. 

"It's alrigh'. Yer safe now. I got yeh to a motel, just as you asked," Hagrid says. Harry forces himself to relax and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his tired face and messy hair. 

"Right. Yeah, sorry about that," Harry says and hops out of the truck to head into the motel. 

When he gets to the front Harry realizes with a sickening lurch that he has no money nor ID. How was he going to book himself into a motel? How would he even feed himself? 

A heavy hand rests itself on Harry's shoulder and he looks up to see Hagrid. 

"Let me take care of it." 

Harry opens his mouth to protest but knows when he needs help. So instead he asks, "Are you sure?" 

"It's the least I can do fer yeh," Hagrid replies. 

Once Harry's checked in with a keycard in hand, he turns to smile sheepishly up at Hagrid. 

"Er, thanks," Harry says. "Y'know. For everything." 

Hagrid just shakes his head and hands Harry a piece of paper with his number on it. 

"Now you just keep yerself outta trouble now, you hear?" Hagrid says.

Harry grins though it's fragile with how tired he is. 

"Believe me, I'll try." 

* * *

The Omega's hitched a ride. Tom stands in the middle of the road, face uplifted and senses stretched as far as they can go. The delicious scent is growing more faint with every moment that passes. It began after overlapping with the smell of diesel and the low rumble of a large vehicle. Tom's eyes narrow. How cumbersome.

Tom stands there for another minute, thinking. But time is precious. He needs to decide. Call for someone to bring a car? Or —

Tom's answer comes by way of the low hum of a car in the distance.

The car comes to a screeching halt just inches from Tom and the horn blares angrily. Tom stiffens and hisses in pain.  _For fuck's sake_.

The man at the wheel is cursing at him furiously and Tom reaches into his coat to pull out his gun. He points it directly at the man who's eyes widen and mouth goes slack.

"If you'd be so kind?" Tom says, looking pointedly at the car. They seem to catch onto what he wants but the man has a steely glint in his eye that Tom doesn't like. The engine revs and Tom sighs inwardly. The woman shrieks at her companion not to do it. Then there is the pop of glass shattering when Tom puts a bullet through the windshield just millimetres away from the man's head.

 _Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be_ , Tom thinks at them.

The couple get out of their car hesitantly, hands raised. Tom jerks his gun to the side, motioning for them to stand by the side of the road. They go without fuss and Tom gets into the car. He doesn't kill them. You never kill people you don't need to. It's the first lesson you learn in this kind of work.

So instead he just starts up the engine and smiles coldly at them before driving off.

* * *

Tom knows where Harry might go. There's only so much out here and the next civilized place for miles is motel and gas station. He breaks the speed limit getting there and doesn't stop for anything.

It's easy finding the Omega Guide. Too easy. Tom knocks on the peeling, mint green door with rusted bronze letters '702' and it opens to reveal a dishevelled and exhausted looking Harry Potter. The man freezes upon seeing Tom and his eyes widen.

Tom spares a second to feel annoyance at how trusting the man is before pushing his way into the room. Harry's heart rate soars and he's backing away and looking ready to fight. Tom would find the idea laughable if his patience isn't already worn thin with how things are going today.

"Don't," Tom warns just as Harry glances at the gun resting on the bedside table. Harry lunges for it anyway and Tom reacts quick as lightning. He latches onto the back of Harry's shirt collar, yanking it until he almost chokes and stumbles backwards.

"Fuck!" Harry gasps, coughing.

"I told you not to do that," Tom growls low in his ear. "You'll quickly learn that there are consequences to those who don't obey me. Understand?" He pulls back just enough to see Harry glaring defiantly at him. Tom bares his teeth and resists the urge to shake him. " _Don't test me_. I can easily break you," Tom hisses. Harry pushes at him but it's futile. Harry's chest heaves and his breaths come hot and rushed over Tom's cheek. Tom finds himself moving his head an inch to the side, eyeing Harry's neck where the carotid artery throbs tantalizingly in his neck.

"What do you want from me," Harry bites out but it comes out sounding more like a whine. Tom's ears sharpen at the sound and his blood rushes hot in his veins. He abruptly releases Harry and steps back which seems to confuse the other man even more.

"I've already  _told you_. Or is your memory really that appalling?" Tom says, carefully composed once more. Harry eyes him warily.

"If you're wanting a bond, I've already  _told you no,_ " Harry shoots back.

Tom can feel his patience almost at the breaking point. He steels himself, creating a mask of calmness and control.

"You know, the longer you resist it, the more danger you'll be in," Tom says almost conversationally. "Voldemort will only continue to pursue you until he gets what he wants, or you somehow die at some point or another. So as far as I'm aware the option I propose should be a relief."

Harry snorts and Tom narrows his eyes.

Harry's jaw works and he surprises Tom by marching right up to him until their chests brush and their faces are just a millimetre apart.

"I will never. Be bonded. To you. Or any other Sentinel wanker out there who thinks that he can just take what he wants!"

"Are you sure about that, Harry?" Tom says, his voice low and smooth. A flicker of doubt seems to cross through Harry's eyes before vanishing.

"Yes. I am," He says. "It's just like I told your boss: I'd rather die than let anyone have me. So you can just fuck off."

Their eyes lock and a long silence stretches. They don't seem to notice how much time passes, simply focused on winning the war of who will look away first. Tom's mouth ticks upwards.

"If that's how you feel about it," Tom says, changing tactic as quick as a flipping a switch. "Why don't I give you another offer?" Harry is wary again but doesn't interrupt him. "How about I help you get rid of my employer and if you still feel the same towards bonding with me, then so be it. No harm, no foul."

"Am I really supposed to believe that?" Harry snaps. "I'm not stupid, you know."

Tom raises a brow.

"Not as stupid as _you_ think anyway."

"Well, I could put it in writing, if that would make any difference. But the thing is, Harry, I can't guarantee you I'm telling the truth," Tom says. "So you can only ask yourself, would you rather risk taking a chance on me? Or going in it alone?"

Harry pauses and Tom holds back a smirk. He knows he has him now.

Harry's jaw tightens and he goes to sit on a chair in the corner. He puts his head in his hands and scrubs at his already frighteningly messy hair.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Harry says, mostly to himself. "I must be bloody mental."

Tom doesn't answer and lets the man debate with himself as he watches.

Eventually Harry looks up at him with tired eyes.

"Fine," Harry sighs. "So what do we do now?"

Tom allows for a moment of victory before sobering. He directs a serious look at Harry.

"First of all, you should know never to open the door for anyone."

"But what if — " Harry starts but Tom cuts him off bluntly.

" _No one_."

Harry stares.

"Do I make myself clear?" Tom's tone is sharp and cutting.

Harry nods, his adam's apple bobbing and his tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. Tom traces the action with his eyes and it reminds him —

"We need to get you pills," Tom says. "You reek."

* * *

Harry showers while Tom is out to get 'supplies', whatever that means. Harry doesn't really want to know. But he's thankful for the respite. The Sentinel's presence is making him heady and  _wanting_  and the cool water against his skin is calming. It clears his mind a little so that he can actually  ** _think_**  for a minute. But then Harry supposes it's not such a great thing after all.

God, what the hell is he doing, agreeing to team up with a hitman?  _And his kidnapper no less?_

Harry's dressed once again, towel wrapped around his shoulders, when Tom comes back shortly with a plastic bag in hand. Harry's eyebrows raise when Tom chucks it at him.

"Take those," Tom says and goes over to the other side of the room to look out the window. Harry yanks open the plastic bag and stops, staring.

"Are these — ?"

"Hormone suppressors," Tom confirms. "Take them now. We need to move you to a safer location." Harry just blinks up at him.

"Did you not understand me?" Tom's voice is sharp. Harry flinches as if Tom will go for his gun at any moment. For some reason Tom doesn't like this. He wants the other's trust. Needs it or this whole thing won't work. Tom forces himself to put on a more controlled and relaxed aura.

"If you don't take them, your smell will lead the D.E. straight to us. It's your choice."

Harry's mouth moves as if to say something but it snaps closed and he digs a bottle out of the bag before disappearing into the bathroom again. Tom hears the tap running and takes the moment to calm himself. It's the Omega's pheromones, he tells himself. It's making him hot and agitated. Maybe a quick run to the gas station for food would clear his mind a little.

Tom barks an order through the door at Harry "Don't leave this room" before he leaves. He passes the car with the broken windshield outside and makes a mental note to ditch it soon. Walking over to the little store in the gas station a few feet from the motel, he slips inside. He spends a few minutes perusing the aisles, not really knowing what to get. He usually just got anything to sustain himself, but what if the Guide had a preference? Tom's lip curls, disgusted with himself that he even cares and shakes off the uncharacteristically altruistic thought before grabbing something.

Tom's at the front of the queue paying when his cell rings. Tom frowns but picks up.

At the words, "We've got eyes on the target. Where are you?" Tom's heart stops. His dark eyes glance up and spot the sudden appearance of a black car parked out on the highway, ready for a quick getaway. Tom ignores the questions on the other end of the line and races out of the shop, almost ripping the store door off it's hinges in his haste to get to Harry in time.

* * *

Tom's hand is already in his coat and pulling out his 9-mm gun from its holster. When he spots the three D.E.'s marching up to the door of 702, he quickly ducks around the corner to plaster himself against the wall. Tom checks the cartridge is fully loaded when there's the sound of a knock on the door. He pauses and after a few moments of tense silence, there's no answer. Tom closes his eyes in brief relief that at least Harry took his advice on that part.

But his eyes snap open again when the sound of several gunshots rip through the night air in rapid succession.

Tom launches himself from the wall, gun arm swinging, and fires off his own round of shots. It takes the D.E.s by surprise and one goes down immediately while another is injured. The third recovers quickly from the surprise attack, however, and points his rifle at Tom. But Tom anticipated it, and has just enough time to dodge the bullet and fire off another shot that manages to catch the man in the throat. The man yells out and clutches his neck while Tom pierces the rest of his body with enough shots to cause him to go down. Tom hasn't forgotten about the one on the floor though. The D.E. lifts his uninjured arm to shoot Tom who swings his leg out and kicks the gun out of his hands. The gun goes flying and clatters on the ground a few feet away. But what Tom doesn't account for is the pain that shoots up his injured leg making him stagger and hiss out, "Fuck!"

Unfortunately, the D.E. catches the display of weakness and launches himself at Tom.

Thick hands dig into Tom's thigh and press hard. Tom grunts in pain and tries to shake him off but the D.E. is tenacious and holds on tight. With a roar, Tom hits him over the head with the butt of his empty gun twice before the grip finally loosens and he can get free. Tom pulls himself up with effort, biting against the pain and faces the battered door. The window on the side is shattered and the curtains torn to shreds. Tom holds his breath when he breaks down the door and bursts into the room.

What Tom finds inside is more holes littering the cabinets in the kitchen and pieces blown off the counter. There are punctures in the walls, a destroyed lamp, a cabinet door hanging off it's hinges, and Tom's eyes scan everything, searching for anything — a trace of blood —

A head of unruly black hair pops up over the counter, glasses askew on a stunned, pale face.

The breath Tom holds is released and before he even realizes what he's doing, he has an armful of warm limbs and his face buried in wild black hair. He inhales the reassuring woodsy scent that is Harry,  _alive_. Tom's face nudges down his neck, scenting,  _grounding_  himself. The feel of a shaky, tentative hand brushes lightly over Tom's back, as if unsure or afraid of what's happening but wanting to assure the Sentinel either way.

"I'm alright," Harry murmurs, and there's a hint of wonder along with the underlying shock of what just happened. Appalled at his sudden, irrational behaviour, Tom pushes away from the Guide.

"We need to get out of here," Tom says, all business once again.

Harry nods, still wide-eyed and shaken and Tom squashes down on the urge to pull him close again. He grabs Harry by the shoulder in any case — just to be able to feel him, solid and whole — though Tom tells himself he doesn't need to. They seem to be in silent agreement not to talk about it as they both head out of the room. Harry's eyes widen at the bodies littering the hall as they step over them to get to the car. Tom laments the fact there's no time to hot-wire another one as the police have most likely been called and would be on their way soon. Harry frowns at the cracked windshield but thankfully doesn't ask about it. With a lurch and a screech of tyres, Tom pulls out of the lot before gunning it down the highway leaving behind a plume of smoke and the smell of burned rubber.

Tom knows by the absence of the black car previously parked outside the gas station that his cover's blown. He's just as much of a target as Harry is now.


	8. Tosspot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grasp on what's happening in my own story is tenuous at best. I almost forgot Ron had an injury - _How do I forget something like that?_  
>  I'm just saying. Keep a lookout. You've got a bit of a writing amnesiac here.

Ron sighs and looks over his shoulder to the car parked on the other side of the street. It's one thing to to be told to limit the places they went to, to not leave the country, and to stay out of sight as much as possible. But being followed around like this? Ron rolls his eyes and turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open with difficulty. Ron very well knew the possibility that whoever took Harry would come back to finish the job on him and Hermione. But when would they be able to stop looking over their shoulders all the time? Would they every be truly safe? With the hand not in a cast, Ron pushes the door closed again and hobbles into the hall on his crutches. The heavy THUNK, THUNK, THUNK of his foot echoes throughout the flat.

"Hey," Ron calls as he walks into the shared apartment. Hermione emerges out of the living room and smiles tentatively at him.

"How was your walk?" She asks.

"Oh, you know. I liked having supervision. Almost felt like a kid again with mummy watching over me." Hermione shakes her head and laughs, but it doesn't have the same tune as usual. "What's wrong?"

She doesn't answer at first, and walks over to wind her arms around his neck. She then leans up on her toes and kisses him.

"Nothing," Hermione says when they break apart again. She leans back to look into his eyes. "I'm just glad you're home."

Ron pulls her close again and closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Hermione that envelops him in a sense of safety. The feel of her soft lips on his is more than a comfort.

"I'll always come home to you," Ron says and sways them a bit on their feet. "Always."

Hermione nods and her hair tickles his freckled cheek.

"Did you ring...?" She eventually asks. Ron sighs and pulls away.

"Yeah, I rang. Said they don't have anything yet."

Hermione bites her lower lip. "They have no leads? Nothing?"

Ron's mouth twists and Hermione recognizes it as a negative. Ron sets his crutches against the kitchen counter and pushes past her into the living room to sit on the couch. She joins him in staring at nothing. A long silence descends that has begun to be familiar over the past few weeks. It's a silence that says everything; That they're thinking about Harry. That they're worried for each other. That there's anger and fear and a need to  _ **know**_ , above all, if Harry is still alive. That they'll be okay. That things will go back to how they were before...

Eventually, Ron breaks the silence.

"I'm going in," He says.

"What?"

"I'm going over. See what they got," He repeats, and pushes himself up from the couch to stand again. A determined light shines in his eyes. "If they say nothing, then I'll just push harder."

Hermione's lip twitches and if this was a less serious situation, she would smile.

"Ron. They won't let us."

He rounds on her, exploding, "Well, they'll just have to! He's our friend!"

Hermione stares at him with glistening eyes. "I know," She says, and her voice wobbles. "Ron, I know."

"So, I'm gonna bloody well go over there and that's that. They can tell me to sod off but I'm not leaving this alone." He says firmly, and awkwardly stumbles back into the kitchen to retrieve his crutches and the keys from the counter before marching into the hall. Hermione watches him like a red-haired hurricane.

"Ron, wait!" She calls and he stops in the hallway just as he's pulling on his jacket. He looks back at her with a fierce, loyal determination expression. It's reminds her that this is one of the reasons why she loves this man so much. "I'm coming with you."

Ron's face softens and he nods, once.

"Come on, then."

For the first time in weeks, a little spark of hope rises in Hermione's chest and she smiles before rushing to grab her own coat.

* * *

Dumbledore sits in his office feeding Fawkes while papers litter his desk. A laptop sits open with documents and reports of Harry Potter. All of it a puzzle. All of it seemingly useless. Voldemort has been too quick for them, yet again. He thinks about making himself a cup of good strong tea with the customary 3 heaped spoons of sugar when the phone on his desk chimes. Feeling indulgent, Dumbledore throws in a few more morsels of feed before going over to pick up the line.

"Severus. How may I help you this fine afternoon?"

A long-suffering sigh comes over the intercom and Dumbledore raises his brow.

"Sir," Severus answers. "There is a large man making a fuss downstairs. He wishes to speak with you. He will neither leave nor talk with anyone else."

Dumbledore hums. "I see. Would you have an idea what this man wishes to talk to me about, perchance?"

There's a brief pause. "I believe it may have something to do with our missing Guide, sir. But it seems his loose tongue stops at that information."

If this is true, then this man might know something. Yet the department has had more than a dozen false alarms where people have claimed to know the Omega Guide's whereabouts. And so far there's been no evidence to prove that this man downstairs knew anything either. But the chance that he might could very well mean an important jumpstart for the investigation. Dumbledore likes to think he is a firm believer in hearing all sides to a story before making decisions, and seeing as the Order is in no position to be picky with what leads they can get, he makes a decision.

"Send the dear man up, please, Severus."

"As you wish."

 _Click_.

* * *

Ron's blue eyes lift up to the rearview mirror again and he lets out a blustery sigh.

"They're not going to stop, you know," Hermione chimes in. "I'd be worried if they  _weren't_ so adamant on following us all the time. Then they'd be doing their job poorly."

"Yeah, yeah, all right," Ron grumbles, turning the corner onto a street bustling with tourists and others in smart suits talking on their phones. "'S just you can't help but wonder where all that was when Harry was around, you know?"

Hermione, for once, doesn't have an answer to this and they spend the rest of the car journey in silence. They park on Whitehall Place and walk down to the main office for the MSGA.

The Ministry is a large old, white-washed stone building similar to it's surrounding architecture excepting the additional sleek silver sign proclaiming it as 'The Ministry for Sentinel and Guide Affairs'. When Ron and Hermione step in, they are immediately greeted by the sounds of yelling and barking.

A large man standing at around 6'7" with a long mane of shaggy black hair and a beard that covers most of his face holds back an equally impressive in size black bloodhound.

"Sir! Animals are  _not permitted_ — " A Ministry employee is saying when the dog lets out another threatening bark.

"Oh, enough with yeh! 'E's jus' a pup. Wouldn't harm a fly!" The large man says. The bloodhound emphasizes his statement with a particularly fierce growl. "Oi! You get yer hands off 'im! He don't like ter be touched there!"

Hermione and Ron exchange a look as they pass the scene and go up to the front desk.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Sentinel and Guide Affairs, how may I help you?" A woman with a short brown bob greets them with a pearly white smile.

Ron clears his throat and tries to look as important as he can when he says, "Er — Ron Weasley. And this is Hermione Granger. We'd like to, um, speak to Albus Dumbledore please."

The woman's eyes light with recognition at their names before they shadow with pity.

"Do you have an appointment?" She asks.

"We don't - er - actually have an appointment..." Ron meekly replies.

"Then I'm afraid he won't be able to see you," The woman says apologetically. "Mr. Dumbledore is currently working on the ongoing case of missing Guide Harry Potter at the moment, and isn't taking any walk-in's."

"He'll take us! We're the missing Guide's bloody friends!" Ron cries. "Get one of the other Order members then."

The woman purses her lips. "I'm afraid that they are also currently unavailable at this moment, sir. Any and all appointments will have to hold until the end of the investigation."

The receptionist is about to turn back to her work when Hermione pushes up to the desk.

"No, you listen," Hermione says in what Ron recognizes as her 'no nonsense' tone. "We've been waiting nearly a week for news on our best friend and have heard  _nothing_. Clearly this is gross negligence on the part of the Ministry and it's  _Order of the Phoenix_ , and I'd like to speak to your manager or someone who can put me through to the one in charge because we are  _ **not**_  leaving until we speak to someone. Is that understood?" She finishes this off with a raised chin and her nose points haughtily up in the air with all the look of someone who shouldn't be contradicted.

The receptionist's face looks pinched and displeased but seems to waver before giving in.

"I'll try to get through again. Just a moment, please," She says.

"Thank you," Hermione clips and turns to see Ron staring at her with a slightly gaping mouth. "What?"

"Have I ever told you how brilliant you are?" Ron says with a lopsided smile.

"Not as of late, no." Hermione can't help but grin.

Ron huffs a laugh but it's cut off when a pale, brooding man dressed all in black with a hook nose and stringy hair drifts up to the large man and his dog.

"Mr. Hagrid?" The man drawls. "Albus Dumbledore will see you now."

"Oh, just Hagrid's fine! No need ter calling me sir," The large man answers, and gives the other's hand a vigorous shake.

"A pleasure," The greasy-haired man's lip curls in a sneer and looks at his hand as if he'd have to go and wash it now. "If you will please follow me..."

Ron and Hermione both look at each other before running (or rather stumbling, in Ron's case) off after them.

"Sir!" Hermione gasps as she runs up to them and Snape's eyes narrow.

"Do I know you?"

"My name's Hermione Granger and this is Ron Weasley. We're friends of Harry Potter's and we've been waiting to speak with Dum — " She rushes out but Snape cuts her off.

"I'm afraid Mr. Dumbledore is very busy at the moment and cannot give you any further news on the case no matter how many times he is asked." He gives them a pointed look that the two have the sense to be chagrinned.

"Yes, well — " Hermione tries to begin again when Hagrid's booming voice comes from behind Snape's shoulder.

"Hang on a minute! Yer friends with 'Arry, are yeh?" Hagrid says.

Snape takes in a slow breath and looks off at nothing as if asking for patience.

"Sir, please refrain from saying anything further of the case until Dumbledore has seen you," Snape says.

"But yeh said they were his friends! Now I don't see why they shouldn't know about what's happened ter the poor bloke!"

Both Ron and Hermione's faces go pale and Ron stammers out, "He's not —  _He's not dead_ , is he?"

"Oh, heavens forbid!" Hagrid cried. "No, no, he was very much alive an' kickin when I picked him up in my truck on the way to Portsmouth. But he weren't in such a good shape, I'll tell yeh that." His great shaggy head shook and he seemed very disappointed that he couldn't have done something more. Ron and Hermione, however, let out equal sighs of relief. Hermione's hand brushes Ron's and the Sentinel steadies. They drink in each other's comfort of the knowledge that their friend is and still might be alive.

Snape, meanwhile, looks as if he might have a rock stuck in his shoe. His beady black eyes dart around them and he grits out, "Not. Here." Before he spins on his heel and leads them towards the elevators. Any Sentinel could've heard their conversation and anything more that is said is another step lost in finding out where Harry Potter is.

Ron nudges Hermione and murmurs low in her ear, "Bit of a tosspot, isn't he."

Hermione has to cover her mouth to keep in the snort of laughter. It's a good thing Snape is a Mute, she thinks as they follow him.

* * *

"Ahh Mr. Hagrid, I presume?" Dumbledore says amiably, then catches sight of Ron and Hermione and lifts his brow. "And I see we have more guests?" Dumbledore looks down at the black dog and smiles as if he sees one walk into his office every day. The black dog parks itself down beside Hagrid who sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, panting and slobbering while it wags it's tail happily.

"Just call me Hagrid, sir, if you please," Hagrid says and leans across to shake the old Guide's hand.

"Of course," Dumbledore replies and turns to Ron and Hermione. "Take a seat. I assume you've met each other then?"

"He — Hagrid, I mean — says he's seen Harry," Hermione blurts out desperately and Dumbledore's eyes light up.

"Is that true, Hagrid? You have spotted our missing Guide?"

"I have. Found 'im on the side of the road, I did. Lookin' worse fer wear but well. He said 'is car broke down a' firs but then he told me..." He trails off at this, as if not sure if he could say it.

"Please, continue. You have my strict confidence. As I'm sure you have with them," Dumbledore says, nodding at Ron and Hermione.

Hagrid nods once before carrying on. "Well, he told me all about that Voldemort, you see. An' how he and his Death Sleepers or some such were behind his kidnappin', holding him hostage in this room and how he escaped."

"Escaped?" Dumbledore raises a curious brow. "All by himself?"

"'S what he says. Don see why I shouldn't believe him. He's a tough little nut, I'll wager. Just like our Fang over here."

The black dog wags it's tail happily again and nudges her nose into Hagrid hand, demanding to be petted. Hagrid smiles down at her and obliges.

"Yes. Harry potter is certainly stronger than we think," Dumbledore comments.

Hermione feels a trickle of pride drift over from her Sentinel and she gives Ron a small smile, sharing in it. They knew Harry could take care of himself. In a lot of ways, he was the glue that held them together back in school. But now when he needs them the most, they feel helpless to do anything.

Dumbledore seems to be in deep thought as he reclines in his chair and slips into a brief rest, giving only a vague "Hmmm." Meanwhile the room can only wait in tense silence.

Eventually Dumbledore seems to rouse again and he says, "This is very interesting. And I must thank you for you confidence in telling us this, Hagrid. It is highly valuable information."

"So d'you think we can find Harry? Do we know where is?" Hermione asks at the same time Ron says, "Let's go and find him then!"

Dumbledore only shakes his head in response.

"What? Why not?!" Ron exclaims.

"I have reason to believe our Harry is being assisted by someone. If he had been alone, I am sure he would have come to us or been found by now. But since this is not the case, we can assume he has had some help. So we will send out our own team to retrieve him but it is all we can do at the moment, as it can be highly difficult when he and this mystery figure will not only be hiding from us, but Voldemort's D.E. as well."

"But why would he hide from us? Why wouldn't Harry come back to the Ministry? I mean, despite it's shite security..."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled when he answers, "Because, Mr. Weasley, it for that exact reason. Our security seems to be compromised."

"What?!" Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid all seem to cry out at once.

Snape makes a movement that looks like a fidget in the back of the room and seems to want to say something but Dumbledore raises his hands to settle them. A bit of his Guide power reaches out and seeps the room in a calmness that all are powerless to disobey.  
The three all settle back in their seats, but still have enough of a mind to be worried and confused and angry.

"It is true," Dumbledore continues. "When the Ministry has this much power over our division here, our security is compromised. As I believe the Ministry has spies for Voldemort in it's employment."

"Why can't we just arrest him? Voldemort, I mean," Ron says.

"Despite our certainty of his crimes, we do not have proof. We have searched for years, but the man is very careful. Or rather, he is protected by very careful people."

"Wait — What about Hagrid? Can't he testify? He's a witness!" Hermione piped up.

"Indeed, Hagrid's word is the first piece of solid evidence this department has seen that may work against Voldemort. However, I imagine as soon as we try to look into Hagrid's claim by searching any security footage at the motel or gas station, we will find nothing." Hermione's mouth opens and closes, wanting to protest, but Dumbledore carries on. "This, of course, will mean that Hagrid is no longer safe, as Voldemort will no doubt know of his existence. I imagine there are, at this very moment, a certain number of his D.E. trying to find him."

A dark, eerie silence descends where Hagrid gulps and Fang whines, sensing it's owner's distress and butting it's head against Hagrid's leg to try and offer some comfort.

"Then where  _ **is**_  it bloody safe?" Ron grumbles.

For the first time, Snape steps forward to answer.

"A fortunate thing you asked, Mr. Weasley. For it is has been voted that your family home in Ottery St. Mary is the best location to hide Mr. Hagrid."

Ron gaped and stammered, "W-What? You're going to hide a witness in my parent's house? Are you mad?!"

"Sadly, no. Otherwise, I'm sure this conversation wouldn't be causing me such a mild headache."

The tips of Ron's ears turn pink and Hermione tries to send placating vibes through to him. Dumbledore sighs.

"Severus only wishes to say that your family home has been elected as the most safe and farthest away from Voldemort's base in London," The old Guide explains. "Granted, distance is not a great inhibitor to those that wish to harm us, but it is still the best position to catch a oncoming threat before it arrives. Wouldn't you agree?"

"But  _why_  — ?"

"You're wondering why it is your parents' home. It is simply because they have been quite close to the Order and what it does. I'm sure you can remember when your father worked a year for us. Admittedly, it was a desk job but your parents have proven by far our most trustworthy and loyal supporters. I'm also sure they would not turn down an opportunity to keep their son and his bondmate safe."

Ron flushes and sits back, trying to process all of it and shaking his head slightly. He still can't quite believe any of this is happening.

"Blimey..." Ron murmurs and Hermione watches him with a sympathetic look.

"Mr. Dumbledore. Sir. Do you really think it's wise to keep all the witnesses under one roof?" Hermione asks carefully. "I mean, it's also putting Ron's family under unecessary risk. They're not qualified,  _surely_  — "

"Miss Granger, I admire your forward-thinking. It is a very valuable thing to have. But I can assure you that no harm will come to Mr. Weasley's parents nor yourselves. For the only ones who will know about this is in this very room."

All three stare back at Dumbledore and Snape mutters something behind him that Ron can make out as something close to "Lord save us all".

"You mean the Ministry won't know about this?" Hermione gawked.

"Neither the Ministry nor the Order excepting myself and Severus here."

"Isn't that..." Hermione struggled to find the word. " _Illegal?_ "

"Completely," Dumbledore smiled. "In fact, I could very well lose my job. But what the Ministry doesn't know will not hurt them."

"Mr. Dumbledore, I really don't think this is wise," Hermione protests.

Dumbledore waves her off. "Whether something is wise or not can only be determined once it is put to the test."

"This is bollocks," Ron growls in frustration and Hermione absently reaches out to pet his shoulder.

"Be that as it may, Mr. Weasley, I'm afraid it is the only thing we can do as of now," Dumbledore replies. "But now, I find myself in keen want of a spot of tea. Would anyone care for some?"

"Oh, I wouldn't mind a cuppa, if it's all the same to you," Hagrid pipes up as if they had not just been talking about how his life is in danger. Ron and Hermione gape at Hagrid who looks back at them like a deer caught in the headlights. "What? There's not reason ter let a good cuppa go ter waste, is there?" Fang lets out a pleased bark in agreement.

"I must be in a circus..." Snape utters morosely to no one in particular.


	9. Alpha Ascent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double the length for double the wait. Sorry about that guys! Looks like I've been caught by a bit of that March Madness.

"You're bleeding," Harry says. A bright scarlet colour blooms on the crisp white fabric wrapped around Tom's thigh and Harry can't help but wince in sympathy. Beside him, Tom throws him a glare before his eyes focus back on the road ahead.

"I wonder who's fault that is..." The Sentinel replies. Harry's got enough of a conscience to be sheepish though he still thinks the wound is deserved. Maybe. Just a little.

"Don't you want to stop over and re-bandage it or something?" Harry asks, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Tom doesn't answer and the Guide huffs. "Fine. Are you at least going to tell me where you're taking me?" He asks this for what has to be the fifth time already. Yet Tom still hasn't said a word during the entire time they've been in the car except for the accusation just a moment ago. He also won't stop driving either, and Harry wagers they must be miles away from the motel by now. In fact, Harry won't be surprised if they're almost in Scotland by now.

Harry sighs and fidgets restlessly in his seat when Tom still doesn't reply to his question. So instead he looks out the car window and watches the scenery pass by in a blur of green trees, grass, and bushes. Slowly Harry's leg begins to move of it's own accord and jiggles up and down restlessly until a strong hand reaches over and clamps down on it in an iron grip, thoroughly halting any movement. Harry startles and looks up to see Tom's arm reaching across. The pale hand flexes around his thigh and Harry's breath leaves him in a small gasp while a flare of want and heat burn through him at the contact. His back straightens, slightly arching against his seat involuntarily and Tom utters a soft noise in the back of his throat. His fingers dig painfully into Harry's leg and Harry just manages to stop himself from letting out a whine.

"Enough," Tom says, but his voice is rough like gravel. His hand retreats to the wheel once again and Harry can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the loss. He quickly channels it into irritation.

"Can't you just bloody say where we're going?" Harry snaps.

Tom's silent for a moment and Harry begins to think he won't answer again but then his dark eyes flit to him a second before he replies, "London."  
Harry's jerks his head around to face the other, straightening in his seat.

"You're not serious," Harry says in a slightly hysterical tone.

"Deadly."

The wince Tom's answer elicits makes the Sentinel think he probably shouldn't have, but the feeling quickly passes. It's not logical.

"Will you at least tell me why we're going back to the sodding source of all our problems?"

"Because," Tom says with forced patience. "We need to lay low for a while. And there's a place. In London."

Harry huffs but decides to acquiesce for the moment. Although he shouldn't, he trusts Tom to know what he's doing. Even if it sounds completely mental.

"What did you tell the driver?"

The question throws Harry completely off and sends his heart racing which causes Tom to glance at him sideways.

"What?" Harry asks, his mouth feeling dry.

"I know you caught a ride with a truck driver," Tom says evenly. "And I highly doubt you talked about what you had for tea."

Harry swallows before answering, "Everything."

Tom doesn't react immediately and Harry feels the tension in him thicken.

"You told him about Voldemort?" Tom asks, still calm as ever. Harry stares hard at the cracked windshield in front of him, wary of the ticking bomb next to him that could very well go off with the next word he says.

"Yeah," Harry eventually replies. Tom is silent for a beat, and then another. It isn't until a few moments of inaction pass that Harry realizes Tom isn't going to do anything. Rather, he doesn't look concerned at all. Harry frowns. "You're not mad. Why aren't you mad?"

Tom's mouth curls a bit at the edges but that's all he gives.

"We need pressure on Voldemort," Tom says before his features harden into stone. "Though you must understand something, Harry. You attract attention to yourself and you're going to get people killed who didn't need to be. Do you understand?"

"You wouldn't — " Harry strangles out.

"I won't . But Voldemort will. When he finds out."

"He can't! "

"He can. And he will."

"We've got to stop him then!"

Tom gives Harry a sharp, incredulous look. "I sincerely hope you're joking. For both our sakes."

"Can't we at least warn him?" Harry pleads.

"Do you even know where he is?" Tom barks, obviously assuming Harry doesn't know a single thing about the man who helped him beyond his name. A steely look comes over Harry's face and he fumbles around in his pocket until he retrieves a crumpled up piece of paper with a number on it. Tom frowns.

"I have his number," Harry explains. "Please, Tom. Let me tell him."

A muscle in Tom's jaw clenches and his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He looks out the side of the car window briefly before turning his eyes back in front him.

"Fine," He says shortly. "But don't come crying to me when you find out he's already dead."

Harry swallows hard but ignores him. Instead he focuses on the feeling of finally being able to help someone even a little bit since this whole mess began.

"Do you have a mobile?" Harry asks and Tom replies with a simple "I do." Harry waits but Tom doesn't remove his hands from the steering wheel.

"May I have it please?" The Guide deliberates, his patience quickly wearing thin.

Tom shoots him a look that has an odd glint of mischief to it. Harry doesn't like it at all.

"In my left pocket," Tom says. "Help yourself." When Harry glares, he adds, "Both hands on the wheel, right?"

"Somehow I find the idea of a hired killer adhering to the rules of the road laughable."

"Hired killers have plenty of rules. 'Not killing' just isn't one of them." A shoulder lifts slightly in a shrug. Harry lets out a frustrated sigh and unceremoniously plunges his hand into Tom's pocket. Tom squirms and shifts away from the rummaging hand and says, "Careful there. The mobile might not be the only thing you find."  
Harry's face flushes scarlet and he sputters, glaring at the side of Tom's face that he's shocked to find holds a ghost of a smile. The Sentinel is clearly enjoying the tease a little too much. Harry finally manages to yank out the cell and absently notes it's a cheap disposable before quickly dialling the number.  
It goes straight to voicemail.

 _"The number you have called is currently unavailable at the moment. Please try again later, or to call again, press one. To leave a message, press two. To use any other service, press_ —  _"_

Harry hits two on the keypad.

" _Please leave your message after the tone,_ " The automated voice chirps. A short note rings through and then silence.

"Hey, um — Hagrid. It's me, Harry. From the motel? You picked me up on the side of the road? Anyway, I just — I need to warn you that there's people out there. Voldemort's people. They'll be looking for you. I'm so sorry, Hagrid. I don't know what else to say, but... Be safe. Hide yourself. They'll come looking for you... I'm sorry. Take care, okay?"

Harry ends the message there, not knowing what else he could possibly say to a man who's helped him so much and at such a great price.

 _"End of message. Thank you for leaving a message. To return to main menu, press_ — _"_  The mechanical voice starts to prattle when Harry hangs up, cutting it off. He lowers the phone into his lap and absently strokes the screen with his thumb while he stares out the window. It's becoming light outside. Harry realizes with a detached sense of awareness that they've driven all night and he hasn't slept through any of it.

Harry can see Tom glance over to him in the window's reflection, but the Sentinel says nothing. Harry knows better than to ask him if he thinks Hagrid will be all right. So he slumps in his seat and continues to watch the brightening scenery blur past, releasing a tired sigh through his nose.

Tom looks over at the Guide again, who's so clearly trying not to look like he's pouting, and absently studies the man's profile; His square jaw, well-shaped nose, sharp cheekbones, the thick but shapely eyebrows, and the oddly bright shine of those captivating green eyes... Tom shakes himself out of the line of thought. Suddenly he's all to aware of the intoxicating scent wrapping around him in the confined space of the car. The aroma is alluring, delicate and slightly floral. Tom clenches his jaw and tightens his hands on the steering wheel.

"Christ," Tom grumbles. "Did you even take the pills?"

He can feel Harry's indignation without having to turn and look.

"Yes, I did!" Harry snaps, then just as quickly falls silent. "Shit..."

"You left them back in the motel, didn't you."

"Well, I didn't exactly have time to pack myself a bag — if you recall, I was too busy being  _shot at_  through the fucking door," Comes the sassy reply.

Tom let's out a slow breath. "We need to get you more."

"And how d'you suppose you're going to do that?"

Tom sends him an unreadable look. "That's for me to figure out. Don't you worry your pretty little Omega head."

"Don't call me that," Harry shoots back darkly.

Tom smiles inwardly. He finds teasing the Guide a surprisingly enjoyable pastime.

* * *

They finally stop at a gas station and Harry's allowed to get out of the car and actually go into the store, much to his own surprise. Though Tom accompanies him and sticks to him like glue, of course. And it's much to Harry's annoyance. Yet secretly, Harry finds he likes the warmth the Sentinel radiates, and the smell. It's weird, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Not for the last time, he curses his Omega hormones.

Once inside the small store, Tom and Harry begin to peruse the isles. Or rather, Harry peruses and Tom looks like he is. But the hitman just seems to pick up random items before putting them back down again without actually having looked at them. Instead his eyes focus on scanning their surroundings; First the cameras in the corners, and the people. After doing this, he leans in to say low in Harry's ear, "Be quick and meet me out front in one minute."

"What? Why?" Harry asks, bewildered and not a little bit alarmed at what Tom plans to do. Or what he thinks will happen. Did he spot someone? Did the D.E. catch up to them?

Tom squeezes his shoulder in way that's both stern and infuriatingly calming.

"One minute," Tom repeats. "Just do as I say." And then he's off.

Harry stands there, still more than a little confused as Tom marches out of the store. Harry looks about for the possible cause of Tom's harried state before picking up a last few items and making his way to the front to pay.

The girl at the cashier gives him a double take as she starts to scan his items.

"Hey, don't I know you?" She says.

Harry's heart jumps into his throat and ducks his head a bit to try and hide from the probing look.

"No, uh. I don't think so," Harry mumbles, and hopes that will be the end of it.

"You just look really familiar," She continues, and Harry clenches his teeth, praying for her to get on with it. He doesn't answer as he watches her bag the last item and hands over a few pound notes when a loud rumbling of a motor is heard out front. Harry and a few others inside the store glance up.

Harry stops, gaping at the sight that greets him through the store windows.

Tom sits on a sleek black motorcycle wearing a matching jet black helmet. The only reason Harry can recognize it as him is the dark eyes that stare out from the visor with a piercing urgency. Harry swallows and stares back just before a loud banging of a door sounds and a man comes bumbling out of the bathroom with his pants half buckled.

"Oi! That's me bloody bike!" He yells and Harry's eyes widen. Before the man can even get past him, Harry is bolting out the door towards Tom.

"Get on!" Tom orders and Harry does so without a second thought. He clambers onto the bike behind Tom and holds on for dear life. Tom stomps down on the pedal and Harry looks back to see the man marching out of the store towards them, face angry and red as he continues to yell. Harry can't hear anything he says over the sound of the engine revving, drowning him out.  _Come on, come on_ , Harry thinks frantically as the man gets nearer. The motorcycle gives a violent jerk and finally both Harry and Tom are shooting off. They roar down the highway, Harry clutching the flapping bag of groceries in his hand while both arms wrap around Tom's waist. His eyes squeeze shut against the blast of wind in his face.

"There's a helmet in the satchel. Put it on," Tom's voice can just be heard over the sound of wind and the engine in his ears. Harry unwraps one arm to rummage around for it and pull it out. It's black like Tom's but has a white stripe on each side. Harry puts the bag of groceries inside the satchel along with his glasses before putting it on and then wrapping his arms around Tom's solid chest once again.

If Harry forgets the entire situation he's in, and that they aren't riding a stolen bike, or running for their lives, and that he's following the man who almost killed his two best friends, Harry thinks this might actually be enjoyable. He feels liberated and free even if it's just for this one moment. But he allows himself to feel it, racing along down the road like the whole world doesn't exist. Harry's so lost in the breath of fresh air that he almost misses the low rumble of _ **contentment, pleasure, satisfaction**_ that echoes back to him in reply.

* * *

As soon as they arrive in London, the bike has to be ditched as well. Tom takes it all the way to a block of rowhouses before disposing it in the woods nearby.

"This it?" Harry asks, looking at the house from the driveway when Tom comes back. Together, they walk up to the front door and Tom unlocks it. "This is the safehouse?"

Tom pushes open the door and gestures for Harry to go in.

"The very one," Tom replies to Harry's guarded look when he goes in.

"It's... normal," Harry comments. Tom raises his brow.

"I apologize. I didn't know you were expecting an underground bunker full of weapons with smart little gadgets like in a James Bond film."

"You watch James Bond?" Harry asks, because of course that's the most astounding bit of information the hitman gives him so far. The mere thought of Tom watching something so far-fetched is making his brain explode. Or the thought of him even watching telly at all really. (What do people like Tom even do when they aren't killing people for money anyway?) But Tom doesn't dignify his question with an answer and walks past him into the kitchen.

"The whole place is stocked so help yourself. Just don't leave the house. Understood? We're only here for a few days."

Harry pulls a disgruntled face but reluctantly says, "Yes, fine. Alright."

"Good," Tom says and suddenly he's pushing up against him in the hall which causes Harry to get hit with that arousing, musky smell of his again. Tom leans down and whispers low in his ear. "Because you know what will happen, don't you?"

Harry wars against wanting to shove him away in anger and disgust or pull him closer. He holds his breath and mentally shakes himself. But before his mind or body can come up with a response, Tom is pulling away again. A gust of cold air hits Harry and causes him to shiver.

 _What a prick_ , Harry thinks, but finds his heart isn't in the insult. And honestly, when did that start to happen?

* * *

A few hours later finds Harry in the living room, restlessly watching some rubbish on the telly when Tom finally comes back with pills. Harry hasn't been able to focus at all since Tom left and when he hears the door open, Harry's there in the hallway. Waiting for him.

The edge of Tom's mouth twitches in an irritating smirk. "Miss me?" He says.

Harry rolls his eyes and asks, "Those the pills?"

Tom just chucks them at him by way of reply and says, "Hurry up and take them."

It's Harry's turn to smirk now but decides not to comment. Instead he makes his way past to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Tom watches him go with a dark look and Harry feels it prickle across his back as he moves down the hall. When he gets to the sink, he exhales a soft shaky breath before downing two pills with a glass of tap water.

When he turns, Tom is suddenly there.

Harry reacts violently and almost drops his glass of water but Tom's hand is there, wrapping around his on the glass. His surprisingly warm, long, strong fingers practically caress his and Harry stares into Tom's bottomless depths while his breath hitches.

"What?" Harry asks, meaning to sound annoyed but just ends up sounding breathless. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Tom gives him a wicked smile. "I don't think that's the only thing making your heart beat so fast..." Tom's head inclines towards him a bit as if entranced (or rather,  _listening_ ) and Harry's breath becomes shallow. His body becomes loose and relaxed with the proximity of the Sentinel and his smell. God, he's just taken the pills but Harry wishes they took effect sooner. "I can always hear your heartbeat. It's always quite fast when I'm near, isn't it?" Tom continues in that low voice that makes Harry want to close his eyes in bliss. But the stubborn part of Harry refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"Shut it. It's not even my fault. Fucking _Jugson_ could be here and I'd still probably be gagging for —" Harry's abruptly cut off by Tom's sudden, ripping growl. The sound goes straight to his cock which jerks in excitement and anticipation. Tom's chest presses against Harry's, causing his back to press almost painfully into the edge of the counter while those liquorice coloured eyes rake across his face, wild and hungry and desperate, before seeming to catch himself and he pulls back a bit. Harry raises his brow but he still feels dizzy. He swallows and licks his lips which feel dry all of a sudden. Tom avidly tracks the movement and Harry can see his Adam's apple bob in response.

"Alright there?" Harry says quietly, wanting to goad. "Looked like you were 'bout ready to give me the bite."

"I told you I wouldn't. Not until you beg me to do it," Tom answers threateningly, and Harry hears the next words reverberate right down to his bones. "And trust me on this; You'll be begging for it soon enough."

Harry shudders and can't help the ache to do it; To just open his mouth and say  _yes_. To get it over with and have Tom fuck him into the mattress, balls deep inside Harry as he cries out his name under him and Christ,  _what the fuck?_

Harry makes the mistake of not smothering the small whimper he makes, and the hard-on he sports must be painfully obvious by now because Tom's nostrils flare and his eyes close as if in pain. Harry would feel smug if he isn't in such a similarly discomforting predicament.

Then Tom's abruptly jerking himself away from Harry. He takes measured, deliberate steps out of the kitchen, his back very straight. Harry watches him go before letting out a trembling sigh, just barely managing to keep himself from melting into a puddle of sexual frustration on the floor.

* * *

It's hours later when Harry calms down enough to trust himself to be in the same room as Tom. After the 'kitchen incident', Harry migrates to the small yard outside, hoping the fresh air will clear his mind and cool his body somewhat. And it does, to a certain degree. But now standing out on the small garden, he notices something.

It's too quiet.

Harry strains his ears and wishes he were born a Sentinel. (If not so that he wasn't in this mess in the first place.) But he hears nothing beyond the gentle rustle of the leaves on the trees beyond the garden fence. The soft chirp of an insect. Yet no cars. No people. No distant sounds of living society at all.  
Harry frowns to himself, unsettled, and goes back into the house.

The house is even more quiet.

Did no one live on this street? Harry wonders. He looks out the curtained windows in the living room and sees no passers-by, cars, or bicycles. Maybe Tom purchased a house on this street for this very reason: No witnesses.

All of a sudden, Harry is filled with a need to hear sounds. Life. Noise.

Even if it came from a grade-A Sentinel Alpha tosser like Tom.

The stairs creak softly under Harry's feet as he climbs them up to the landing. It's completely quiet and dark on this level of the house. Curtains are drawn and the lights are off. The only light comes from cracks in the curtains, casting everything in late afternoon dimness. He goes all the way to Tom's room when he stops at the door. It's opened just a sliver and wonders if he should knock. He's sure he doesn't need to alert the Sentinel of his presence because he would have heard Harry come up by now. Harry musters up the courage and pushes open the door. The room is just as dark as the landing, if not dimmer. Harry's eyes take a while to adjust to the lack of light and spots the unmistakable form of Tom lying prone and deathly still on the bed. Harry notes that he sleeps on top of the covers, fully clothed in what looks like silk and cashmere. Harry also notes how the top two buttons on his shirt are open, revealing his pale but lean chest.

Harry stands awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself now. He didn't expect Tom to be sleeping. Somehow the idea seems strange and bizarre though he doesn't know why. Tom  _is_  human after all, no matter how much the man doesn't act like it most of the time.

Harry's eyes catch onto the blood-stained bandage around Tom's leg and he frowns. Taking a step closer, Harry finds there's a fine sheen of sweat on Tom's brow which looks to be scrunched up in obvious strain. Harry wonders if he's in pain.

Harry's almost at the bed, staring down at the pale form of a sleeping hitman, and not at all sure what to do. Should he wake him? Make him take care of the wound before he bleeds out in his sleep? Harry's hand reaches out and pauses. Should he shake him awake? The hand hovers indecisively for another moment. Which seems to be a moment too long. There's a sudden, violent movement that somehow ends up with Harry's arm twisted painfully behind his back and his face smashed against the floor next to the bed. The heavy weight of a body presses on top of him and what Harry assumes must be a knee digs painfully into his back.

"Agh! Fucghk!" Harry cries into the carpet, muffling the words a bit. The sound of his voice seems to be the trick, though, as the weight abruptly lifts and Harry's able to scramble up. "Bloody hell!" Harry yells, rubbing his wrist as Tom flinches and settles himself back down on the edge of the bed with what seems to be a bit of effort. "You're a complete psycho!" Harry says but Tom just gives him a tired and strained look.

"I need you to lower your voice," The Sentinel pushes through gritted teeth. When Harry just glares, he closes his eyes and when they open again, understanding dawns on Harry. Extreme discomfort bordering on pain reaches him before it's quickly shut off. Tom is...

Harry stares and feels more awkward and at a loss than before. He bites his lip in indecision before saying, "Are you... Are you gonna Zone or someth — "

"Don't be ridiculous," Tom snaps and Harry's mouth clicks shut.

"Fine," Harry says, unsure whether he feels relieved or hurt at the refusal of his help. Or more specifically, his Guide ability. Tom's obviously going through a raw patch where his Sentinel senses are at an all time high. Apparently, the only thing that can soothe a Sentinel is a Guide to help him overcome the bout of over-sensitivity. Or, even better; the Sentinel's bondmate.

Tom lets out a small sigh. "The fuck you want," He says, voice both aggravated and sleep roughened. Harry has to consciously not get caught up in the sound of it. Harry purses his lips and jerks his chin at Tom's leg.

"You gonna take care of that or what?" Harry says in a lower pitch than before. Tom looks at him with an unreadable expression as if unsure why Harry's asking. The Guide rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake," Harry grumbles. "Just let me take care of it then, will you? Where's the first aid kit?" Harry waits for an answer and Tom seems to take his time giving one, but eventually gestures to the drawer beside the bed. Harry rummages around until he finds it and pulls it out. He starts to tentatively unfold the bandages from around Tom's leg and can feel dark eyes watching him carefully, warily. As if Tom distrusts him and Harry doesn't even know why he would. It's not like he can possibly win in a fight against him, as was abundantly clear just a few moments ago.

When he's finished, Harry stares at his work to avoid looking at those eyes still trained on him. He tries to come up with something to say and comes out with, "Um... Sorry I, uh..." He trails off.

"Don't," Tom says, nonchalant. Harry's briefly confused. "You're not sorry."

Harry ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. Although he hates to admit it, Tom's right. He's not proud about it, but when faced with the person who supposedly killed his friends... He can't really bring himself to regret the decision to shoot him in the leg.

"Right, well. Okay..." Harry says, and starts to move away. Standing around in Tom's bedroom while his senses are going berserk makes him feel awkward and self-conscious for some reason. But then there's still that lingering need to stay. It's pathetic, but Harry wants company even if there's no conversation involved.  
Tom's body shifts a bit and Harry looks to see that he's relaxed a fraction. Dark eyes bore into Harry and the Guide swallows. Tom's eyes flicker lazily at the sound.

"We're meeting a contact tomorrow. I need you to train before then," Tom says into what's rapidly becoming a charged silence.

"A 'contact'," Harry repeats. "Does that mean 'friend' in assassin speak?"

"Hardly," Tom grunts as he hoists himself off the bed. Harry moves to do something — to help him — but manages to stop himself just in time.

"Where are you going?" Harry asks, unable to stop the spark of worry though he tells himself it's only because he doesn't want his bandaging work to be undone.  
Tom looks back over his shoulder in the doorway. Harry can't help but notice how he leans slightly on it for support.

"I want to show you something. And then train you."

Harry frowns and opens his mouth to ask what the hell he's on about. But Tom's already leaving before he has the chance to. Harry huffs before he follows him out of the room.

* * *

What Tom wants to show him is a wardrobe, apparently.

Just when Harry thinks to question the hitman's sanity the second time in an hour, Tom's fingers reach into the back and something catches. The bottom of the wardrobe pops open and Tom pulls out a few trays laden with an assortment of impressive and very terrifying looking weaponry. Harry gapes.

"I thought you said this place didn't come stocked with fancy weapons?" Harry says.

"I said it didn't have an entire armoury. Not that it didn't have anything at all," Tom responds calmly. Harry narrows his eyes but Tom's too preoccupied with checking the magazine of a simple matte black handgun with a long nozzle. Harry's eyes rake over the other things and finds a Bowie knife, a rifle, a few more handguns of various shapes and sizes and  _holy shite, are those bombs?_

Harry watches, horrified, as Tom picks up the little grenade and weighs it in his palm as if contemplating it before putting it back down again. Like it's  _too risky_. Harry almost chokes on his spit.

"So what's this 'training' you're banging on about?" Harry asks to keep his mind from worrying on the potential dangers of Tom having things on him that could come out and lethally harm him at any moment. (Though he's fairly sure Tom's far too careful for this to happen.)

Tom looks coolly over his shoulder at Harry before answering. "Your empathic Guide power. It needs to be stronger," He says. "Voldemort will be training, so you should be prepared too, just in case."

 _Just in case?_  Fuck, Harry never wants to see the bald lunatic ever again in his whole life. But Tom's making it sound like an inevitability.

"Alright, then. When do we start?" Harry asks.

Tom's mouth twitches upwards and the sight sends an excited chill to run down Harry's spine. He's fairly certain he'll develop a Pavlovian response very soon.

"Right now," Is Tom's smooth reply.

* * *

"Your recovery time's shortened since you've last had to use your Guide abilities, but it needs to be faster. I need you to be stronger," Tom explains to Harry. They're out in the small garden by Harry's choice. He hopes the fresh air and open space will help in some way when the formidable Sentinel tests his shields.

 _I was strong enough to throw_ _ **you**_ _off your guard once_ , Harry wants to say but wisely keeps the comment to himself.

Harry huffs but finds he can't argue with the hitman's logic.

"Alright then, what do you propose — " Harry starts but cuts himself off with a gasp when Tom releases some of his Alpha presence. Harry reels and recoils, afraid to succumb under the intoxicating aura and becoming a begging, wanton mess, bearing his throat for a bond bite. Harry scrambles to shield himself but it's not enough.

The presence recedes and Harry releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. He's suddenly aware of the feel of damp grass beneath his hands and wonders how he got to be on his knees. He squints up at the Sentinel standing a foot away.

Tom's frowning but his eyes are mysteriously dark, a hint of hunger in it's depths.  
"Not good enough," Tom says.

Anger flushes hot in Harry's chest and he lashes out in defence.

"Well I wasn't exactly expecting to be sandbagged like that!" Harry yells. Tom puts on an unaffected air again when he replies.

"You'll never be expecting it, Harry. You have to be ready at all times."

 _Sounds like paranoia_ , Harry thinks, but grudgingly concedes Tom's point.

The presence hits again but Harry's quicker this time. He just manages to shield himself, shutting his eyes tight in effort. The presence becomes heavier.

 _Oh God_ , Harry thinks. He's going to drown if he lets go now. He can feel beads of sweat begin to form on his temples at the effort he exerts.

Slowly, the weight recedes until it's lifted completely and Harry almost collapses again from relief.

Tom's silent for some moments, simply watching Harry recover. His voice is strong and unwavering when he eventually says, "Practice."

"Marvellous advice. Thank you," Harry shoots back. "I don't know where I'd be without you."

"Dead," Is the simple reply. "Or wishing you were."

Harry stares back and shakes his head, still panting slightly. "You're a right prick, you know that?"

"So I've been told. Repeatedly."

Harry's mouth twitches but he refuses to laugh.

"Right," Harry says, gathering himself up once more and preparing his shields. "Let's get on with it then."

Tom raises a brow and Harry thinks he might see a little approval in those dark depths. But it's hard to know for sure. He'd stretch out with his empathy but doesn't trust Tom enough not to bombard him as soon as he does.

The alpha in Tom flares at the sight of his Omega being so strong, so diligent. At the moment, he wants nothing more than to force Harry down under the weight of his full alpha power. To let him succumb to his musk and hold Harry down as he ravages him. The Guide would open up like a flower, so sweet and ready to receive the bite. But Tom holds back by sheer force of will.

Harry will come to him soon enough. He can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I changed some stuff between Tom and Voldy in the chapter before last, but there's no urgent need to re-read it. I only inserted a bit more dialogue and such while the rest of the chapter's remained untouched and entirely skip-able if you've read it before. :) Just thought I'd let you guys know as a general PSA.


	10. Lucidity Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months! Amazing comments were left last chapter and I'm sorry I couldn't get to them. I was ill in April, then had to pack up my life in the UK to come to West Africa. Hope you guys are having good summers so far. (Or rainy winters like me. Which is a godsend, tbh.)

Harry tosses and turns in his bed, body sweat slick and heated. He wakes with a gasp. With hands shaking and heart hammering, he goes to grab at the little plastic bottle next to his bed but drops it, scattering pills all across the carpet. A curse flies from his lips into the quiet, stifling darkness. Reaching out, he flicks on the bedside lamp.

The room's instantly plunged in a warm yellow light that burns Harry's eyes. There's a fumble to put on his glasses before jumping out of bed to pick up the mess on the floor. After all of the little pills are back in their place, Harry remains sitting on the carpet with his knees pulled up to his chest. The t-shirt he found to sleep in is damp and clings uncomfortably to his skin. Harry finds he can't be bothered to do anything about it at the moment. All he can do is lean back against the side of the bed with his fist clutching the handful of suppressors. Harry takes in a deep breath and tries to steady himself. His eyes flicker open again to reach for the glass of water on the bedside table when a shadow passes by the corner of his vision. It moves toward him at seemingly inhuman speed.

"Fuck!" Harry drops the pills in his hand and yells, "For — Christ's  _sake_! Tom!"

His voice is a strange mix of relief and anger edged with desperation. He wills his heart rate to a normal speed when he sees it's not Voldemort or a D.E. trying to kill him.

Just Tom, who's more likely to end up doing it himself if he keeps sneaking up on Harry like this.

Harry's hands still shake with jitters and he slips them under his glasses to press against his sore, tired eyes. A slow, shuddering exhale escapes his lips. It's too early to try and look calm when he's anything but.

Tom still hasn't said a word since he came in and just stands there, watching him. Harry feels a bubble of annoyance but finds he can't act on it with much vigor.

"What is it," Harry grumbles. "D'you just come to have a look at the panting Omega? Or was there something important that needed my immediate attention at  _arse o'clock_ in the morning?"

The words are acidic and bitter, tinged with something like defeat. Tom decides he doesn't like it. Doesn't like the clear waves of unsettled emotions that fill up the rooms with their chaos. It's the same thing that's been polluting his mind ever since he laid eyes on the Guide. The very thing that now causes his slumber to be restless and ineffective at giving him actual recuperation. What happened in the kitchen the other day should be proof.

He's slipping.

And it's the Guide's fault. He's driving Tom crazy.

Tom can still smell the musky sweetness of Harry's arousal. The empathic presence like gentle fingers, cool and soothing against his mind. Harry engulfed him and Tom could hardly stand to be in the same room without wanting to tear him apart. Then the whole afternoon left him trying to patch up the cracks of what should be his otherwise unassailable self-control.

Tom blames it on the wound. On Harry's lack of focus when it comes to shielding himself properly around Tom. Either from blind trust or stupidity, Harry left Tom prone on his bed for hours. Hypersensitive, raw, and  _needing._  With his self-control hanging by a thread.

Then Harry came in again and... God, Tom can still feel it.

Just a small touch of the Guide's presence in his mind would've been bliss.

Shaking himself from that dangerous line of thought, Tom grates out, "Your shields."

Harry frowns, confused for a brief moment. Then there's a small pause and a disgruntled, "They're in place. What're you talking about?"

It's Tom's turn to frown now. If everything really is all boarded up then why does he still get this trickle of unease from the Guide? Why did he wake up, hot and itching with the impulse to  _do something_. Standing here, Tom quickly realizes he wants to go to Harry. To seep away the distress.

"Take the pills," Tom grunts and turns to leave. He's halfway back to his room when he hears the sigh and muttered, "Fuck d'you think I was trying to do."  
  


* * *

  
Tom lies awake and listens to the static of the shower running. With a small stretch, he can just hear the soft moans and little gasps underneath the static. A strong urge to go back and rip away the shower curtain has him fighting himself again. To just  _take_  what must surely belong to him by now. His own need presses insistently against his trousers. Only through sheer force of willpower does he manage to hold himself back from attending to it. Hours pass by with Tom staring up at the ceiling. Eventually he's lulled into a doze by the steady heartbeat in the room down the hall. The occasional rustle of a body turning over, as restless as his own.  
  


* * *

  
Harry can't get back to sleep. After trying to wash away the evidence of his genetic weakness in the shower, he's still itching with discomfort. Additionally, the thought of going back to sleep to have more disturbing dreams seems sadistic. So instead he gets up and dresses in some of the clothes he finds in the closet. As he does this, Harry wonders who the hell they belong to and if Tom just bought them in the event of having to stash someone away in this safe-house of his. The thought leads to the question of whether there were others before Harry and a strange, savage emotion rises up before he pushes it away again.

The clothes are a little big but fit well enough. Harry has to roll up the sleeves on the dark blue shirt as well as the khaki trousers for being slightly too long. They're slim fitting but surprisingly comfy and once dressed, he decides to venture downstairs.

Harry makes himself a cup of tea before he settles in the living room. It's still too early to watch TV or put on the main lights so he flicks on a single lamp and picks up a book he finds on one of the shelves. There isn't much of a selection and he ends up with a tourist book of Spain. As interesting as it is, Harry finds himself gazing around the living room instead. It's clean, stylish, but empty. Like the rest of the house, it lacks anything personal. It reminds Harry of something out of a catalog. It's unsettling and Harry ends up having to get up and move around a bit. To look for something familiar. Some evidence that he's not living in a doll house.

Harry rifles through the drawer beneath the television. At first there's only outdated magazines, documentary DVD's, a box of light bulbs, a first aid kit...

Harry freezes.

There, laying under all of this, lies a shiny black handgun.

The weapon sits on the bottom of the drawer threateningly, as if it were glaring at him. Impossible to ignore. Slowly, Harry reaches inside and gingerly picks it up. It's surprisingly heavy for such a small thing. Though the weight only seems to lend to its lethal and dangerous nature.

He stares at it for a long while before gripping it more firmly and bringing it up to eye level. Aiming at a nearby lamp, Harry closes one eye to focus his line of fire. His finger lies gently against the trigger but doesn't press down. He takes in a breath.

_One... two... three..._

The gun wavers, then lowers back down to his lap.

Harry takes a moment to figure out how to open up the magazine and it slides out in his palm, full of live rounds. The thought that he has a real gun in his hands jars him. With just a bit more pressure on the trigger, he could have...

Harry hastily puts the gun back in the drawer. He's ready to close it and not have to look at it again when his eye catches on something else.

A string of wire, medium in length with handles at each end, lies coiled neatly on top of a stack of magazines. Harry doesn't have to be an expert to know what it's used for.

After staring at it for a long time, he takes it out. He holds it at both ends and pulls it taught. The wire twangs softly and Harry brings it up to eye level, wondering if there might be the remains of something — Traces of blood, hair...?

He realizes after a moment that there's nothing.

Of course there wouldn't be. Tom's too neat for that.

Curiosity getting the better of Harry, he brings it up to his own neck. A strange, dark thought comes to him then. He imagines what it might be like to be in the hold of something that could easily decapitate or strangle him.

An image of Tom wrapping it around someone's neck flashes through Harry's mind. Of how those strong hands would be unrelenting, pulling and tightening like a cobra as the wire sliced into delicate skin. The onyx eyes fierce and focused. His handsome face mask-like and terrifying.

Harry swallows and feels the pinch of the wire cut into him slightly. Hastily, he removes it.

Jesus.  _What the fuck is he doing?_

Harry stuffs the wire into the drawer before scooting backwards to lean against the sofa's edge. He blows out a steady breath and closes his eyes. He's just tired. With everything that's happened so far, it's no wonder he's going crazy.  
  


* * *

  
Tom comes down a few hours later, clean shaven with black hair wet and neatly combed from a recent shower. He's dressed in a slim-fitting dark brown t-shirt and black jeans. As though he can feel him there, Harry's eyes flicker open to land on him. A sigh escapes his lips before he gets up from where he'd dozed off against the couch. He takes off his glasses and runs a hand over his groggy face before placing them back on. When he can see again, it's to find Tom's eyes roaming over him, hungrily taking him in from head to toe. A soft curl of pleasure filters through to Harry and it suddenly hits him like a punch to the chest. The clothes.

They belong to Tom.

He's  _wearing..._

Harry curses himself, and the fact that he can't help but feel a small glow of triumph at the Sentinel's clear approval. For some reason, he's now shy and self-conscious. Furious at himself more than anything, Harry goes to brush past Tom when the other man steps in his way.  
Harry looks up, annoyed and ready to say something about it, when the look on Tom's face stops him.

The other man's eyes are zeroed in on his neck and Harry freezes. His heart gives a lurch in his chest as he watches Tom's hand slowly come up and brush a finger along his throat. It's like an electric shock to Harry's system and he shivers.

"What's happened here?" Tom asks in a low timbre. His tone is carefully devoid of emotion and almost makes Harry think he might be simply curious. But by the fact that Tom can't tear his eyes away from his knuckle that's so gently pressed against the marked skin, it's clear he's anything but detached.

Harry can't say anything for a moment. He likes to think Tom can't intimidate him, but the knuckle that barely brushes against his throat is arresting. The air is charged. Like Harry's going to be punished. Or he's being tested to see if he'll lie.

Harry clears his throat and manages to get out a "Nothing." before he jerks away from Tom's touch to move past him into the kitchen. Trying for nonchalance, he asks over his shoulder, "Tea?"

Harry doesn't expect an answer, so it's a surprise when one actually comes.

"Coffee. Black."

As Harry busies himself making their morning brews, he can feel Tom's gaze burn a hole in his back from the breakfast table. Heat swims through Harry's blood but any time he glances in Tom's direction, that gaze is still on him. Harry grits his teeth and tries his best to ignore it.  
  


* * *

  
The needle sinks into the flesh of his arm and the burn of chemicals fire through his veins. His hand constricts, convulsing, and he makes a tight fist. The veins on his forearm bulge and look stark and bruised against his pale skin. Fingers shake and breath comes harsh. He stands, straightens his expensive suit, and walks about his office a few times. With a roll his shoulders and head, he grunts through the remaining pulses of pain. It's agonizing and searing but he manages.

"Sir."

He rounds on the man — a D.E. — who takes a step back, eyes wide. He seems to find something in his expression to be alarming.

Voldemort grits his teeth and smiles.

The effect does not soothe the man. It looks more like a grimace. A snarl.

"You bring good news, I hope," Voldemort says.

The man swallows and takes a tentative step forward to hand him a file. Voldemort briefly looks through it and snarls with earnest this time.

"The old fool. Does he truly believe he'll win? After all these years, Mr. Dumbledore still thinks he can best me. With what? The word of a truck driver?" He throws the file on his desk with a loud slap and waves a hand at the D.E. "Tell me of our progress with the Omega."

The man clears his throat and Voldemort pauses in a hunch over his desk. He doesn't look up from the shiny glass surface.

"I'm afraid we still haven't got eyes on the target, Sir," The D.E. reports. "Tom — I mean, the defective member — appears to be concealing him. We're not clear on where."

After a long moment, Voldemort finally looks up and straightens to his full height. His eyes never leave the D.E. and another silence passes where nothing seems to happen. The D.E. begins to shuffle nervously. The longer Voldemort stares, the other man begins to shake until his whole frame is wracked with convulsions. A dark stream of blood begins to pour from the D.E.'s nose and lands with a sickening  _plop, plop, plop_  on the carpet. His mouth opens in gurgle as it's also quickly filled with blood. Long minutes tick by and the other man's body crumples to the floor, body in spasm with twitches until he becomes completely still. Crimson continues to trickle out slowly from the D.E.'s ears, eyes, mouth and nose into a pool beneath him.

All the while Voldemort stands behind his desk.

In front of the large wall of windows overlooking London, the Hybrid remains completely still, breathing heavily. He brings a shaking hand to his hairless, smooth head as bright white hot pain stabs behind his eyes. But he doesn't think of the pain this time.

He's never felt more alive. More powerful. More  _stronger_  in his life.

Voldemort smiles, a wicked and sharp image, and laughs.  
  


* * *

  
The waiting is the worst. The meetup with Tom's contact is only until later on tonight and Harry's anxious. Restless. All they can do is sit and wait.

Well,  _he's_  waiting.

Tom looks like he's... planning. Scheming. He  _tap, tap, taps_ away at his computer on the other side of the room and hasn't looked up once. But every time Harry moves, he swears there's a small pause in the typing and clicking.

An hour or so passes by like this until Harry sighs and gets up to make what has to be his fifth cup of tea that day. But then Tom's getting up as well and the next thing Harry knows, he's being manhandled up the stairs.

"Let go! The hell d'you think you're doing?!" Harry yells, struggling to rip his arm out of Tom's grip. But as always, it just seems to tighten.

"We're going to train," Tom states.

Harry has to suppress his groan. God, no. He's had his Guide abilities tested more than enough for a lifetime. His head still aches from their last 'training session'. But then he's shuffled into Tom's room and any more protests die on his tongue.

Harry watches as Tom goes straight to open up the secret compartment of weapons in his wardrobe. Tom stands back and gestures for Harry to come closer.

"Take your pick. You're going to learn how to use one of these shiny new toys," Tom informs him.

Harry stares. "I'm surprised you'd trust me after what happened last time you put a gun in my hands," He says.

Tom's stare is cold and hard when he replies, "It's a risk I'll take."

Harry glances back at the tray of weaponry before making a tentative path toward it.

He stands taking it all in once again and can't help his hand going to his throat. His fingers brush against the ghost feeling of a wire pressing into it and he shudders. He can feel Tom's keen eyes on him, unwavering.

Eventually Harry picks up something from the drawer and Tom's brow raises.

"A bowie knife," Tom states. Harry licks his lips nervously. "You think you can cut someone open? Feel their flesh being torn up under your hand?"

His tone holds no trace of judgement but one of genuine curiosity. Harry doesn't immediately put the knife back but the image of stabbing someone sends a repulsed shiver through him. After he returns the weapon, a trickle of smug amusement reaches him which grates on his pride. Harry next takes up a normal-looking handgun but almost immediately drops it. It's surprisingly heavy like the one in the drawer but somehow feels more big and clumsy in his hands.

"A Remington R-one, forty-five acp handgun," Tom rattles off. He then takes the gun out of Harry's hands and places it back on the tray for him. "I wouldn't recommend it for beginners."

Harry's about to make some noise of complaint when Tom pulls out a small, matte black gun with a short nozzle. "Here. A Walther P-twenty-two. It's compact, low on recoil, and accurate." He hands it to Harry, whom after handling the other gun, is surprised at how lightweight it is. The grip feels secure and comfortable in his hand.

As far as a gun can feel anyway.

He fiddles with it a bit more when he hears Tom say, "It suits you."  
  


* * *

  
With a few more hours to kill, they end up walking down the street to an abandoned building site. The area's empty save for a few rusting metal beams and rotting stacks of lumber. All of it's surrounded by trees and despite the occasional insect noises, completely quiet. But knowing that there aren't many (or any) people around the neighbourhood, Harry isn't worried about secrecy too much. Tom certainly doesn't seem to be.

The hitman is putting a long nozzle on the gun Harry picked out when Harry asks, "What's that for?"

"It's a suppressor," Tom answers shortly.

"You mean like a silencer?"

There's a twitch of Tom's mouth that Harry recognizes as his way of smiling.

"Yes," Tom replies, and finishes securing the piece of equipment before handing it back to Harry. "Realistically, most guns can't be silenced even if you put a suppressor on. Among other reasons, people only use them to minimize the risk of hearing loss or mask the direction of a shot in noisy, outdoor environments."

Harry frowns, taking in the information diligently. But mostly he thinks how this is the most he's heard the Sentinel say since he met him.

"I s'pose by 'people' you mean people who aren't trained killers, right?" Harry comments, meaning it as a jab. But Tom's unaffected when he answers.

"Yes. Hold it with both hands," Tom instructs when Harry lifts up the gun and points it vaguely at a tree in the distance. Harry's right hand comes up to wrap around his left on the handle. "Good. Now grip the handle high and aim both thumbs at the target." Tom comes to stand behind Harry who nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the other's hard body press up behind him. Strong hands grip Harry's hips tightly and he can't help letting out a surprised little gasp.

"What're you — ?" Harry begins to ask, but the toe of Tom's foot taps the inside of Harry's own, indicating for him to widen his stance. Dumbly, Harry follows through.

"That's better," Tom says in a tone that seems softer. More husky. It sends a jolt of pleasure through Harry and he has to shake it off in order to focus again. "Bend your knees slightly — that's it — so as to allow for better stability. Now use your dominant eye to aim."

Harry brings the gun up again from where it lowered during Tom's instruction. He swallows when the heat of Tom's body seems to burn him right through their clothes. The gun wavers slightly and Harry grips it more firmly while Tom continues to murmur instructions in his ear, "Don't pull the trigger but squeeze it to the point you start feeling resistance. Press right up against that wall," Here Tom's grip tightens on Harry's hips, making the possibility of bruises the next day a certainty. "Once you get up to that wall, it's a nice, slow  _press —_ " Tom says slowly, and his pelvis connects to Harry's backside. Harry lets out an embarrassing squeak but Tom doesn't stop talking. "— all the way through. Don't anticipate when the gun will fire. You want to surprise yourself as to when the gun actually... discharges."

Harry shudders and his face burns. Clenching his jaw, he closes his eyes and takes a breath to steady himself before following through with the instruction.

Harry closes one eye and focuses on the little notch on end of the barrel. Once the tree is just a blur through the rear sight, he presses down on the trigger in increments until he feels something give. And like opening a carbonated drink, the gun fires off with a sharp popping sound that echoes through the construction sight.

Only after everything is silent once again, Harry lowers the gun. Tom's grip on his hips finally loosens as he takes a step back and Harry feels like he can finally breath again.

Tom makes a humming noise behind him.

"Well, Harry. Not too atrocious for your first time," He says. Harry turns to see Tom's gaze fixed firmly in the distance. Clearly assessing the shot with his keen Sentinel eyesight.

"A few centimeters off but you managed to hit your target."  
  


* * *

  
It's dark when they finish their impromptu training session. Tom lets Harry keep the gun with instructions to keep it in the front of his trousers for better access. Harry does so, albeit not without a small amount of trepidation that he might shoot his bollocks off. (When he voices this concern, however, Tom only says, "That's what the safety's for. And well made guns don't just 'go off'." With no small amount of exasperation.)

When they get back to the safe-house, Tom opens the garage to reveal a small blue Toyota Yaris parked inside. At Harry's look, Tom asks, "I suppose you were expecting a Porsche or something like that?"

"Something like that," Harry concedes as they pack into the unassuming little car.

No further words are exchanged during the whole ride into central London. Nor when they find themselves entering rougher areas. Streets of drunk people yelling and fighting each other outside of pubs and along sidewalks. Eventually they're turning into a large parking structure and Harry's trepidation increases.

The tire's of the car squeal as they wind their way up to the very top and Tom pulls into a shadowy space in the far corner. He cuts the engine and everything is plunged into silence. The darkness outside becomes stifling. The few flickering fluorescent lights only make it more difficult to see anything that may lurk in the shadows. Harry shifts and thrums with nerves. This is it. This is when they'd finally get their new names. Money. Passports. Everything they'd need to start a new life somewhere else. He can finally get out of London and leave the whole of Europe behind. Maybe go to America. Or Russia.

Or wherever the fuck it is that people go to disappear for ever.

Harry's gut tightens. The thought of leaving sits heavy and leaden on his chest. When will he be able to come back? Will he ever be able to? He pushes the thought away before he can get stuck on it. This is how it has to be. Tom said so himself. If Harry stayed, he'd only be putting those he cared about in danger as well as himself.

A movement beside him causes Harry to turn and catch Tom glance at the silver watch on his wrist. Other than this, the man's remained completely still. Harry would swear Tom was dead if he didn't check to see if he's breathing every once in a while.

In an attempt to break the unbearable stillness, Harry decides to strike up a conversation that's been circling his mind for a few days now. Clearing his throat, Harry starts, "So, uh..." Tom's eyes flicker to him, his brow raising in cool curiosity. Harry licks his dry lips. He knew he shouldn't ask — Even anticipated receiving a shitty, unfeeling answer. But he had to or it would continue to eat at his mind.

"What will happen to Ron and Hermione? And Hagrid? I need..." Harry makes a small noise that sounds too much like distress. He shifts in his seat before forcing out the words in what he hopes is a stronger voice, "I need to know if they'll be okay."

God, he sounds so vulnerable. So desperate.

But he is. He's practically begging Tom to soothe his worries, even just a little. The high probability of him not doing so makes Harry feel sick.

Tom takes out a slow, measured breath and Harry braces himself for the worst. He's unsure if the gesture means Tom's losing patience or trying to find some.

"Voldemort will have to be dealt with before any of us are safe. I can make no promises," Tom answers. Harry relaxes slightly but feels gnawing frustration at being helpless to do anything about it.

"Yeah, I get that. But why hasn't he thrown you under the bus yet? I mean, as far as I can see he's been awfully quiet. I don't know..."

Tom sends him a heavy stare. "Believe me when I say he's working very hard to find us, Harry. Every minute of every hour there's someone out there looking for you. Make no mistake about that."

Harry swallows.  _Well, that's ominous_.

For a minute there's uncomfortable silence until Tom speaks again.

"And Voldemort can't throw me under the bus," He adds.

"You're awfully sure of yourself," Harry counters. Tom stares straight into the dark parking lot.

"I am. If Voldemort put the blame on me, not only would we have the D.E. after us but the police and The Order as well. You really think he'd let them get to us first?"  
Tom turns to look at Harry again and the small amount of light there is reflects in his eyes like glittering black pools.

"Not to mention you'd be saying he's behind your abduction. I can't imagine he'd like that very much."

There's a brief pause where Tom's hands tighten on the armrest and his eyes gaze out the windshield again.

"So, no... He'll be coming after us alone. He'll try to get us before the Order does and before any of us opens their mouth."

A helpless desperation claws at Harry. "What about the Order?" He tries. "Can't we just go straight to them? They work separately from the Ministry."

"The Order's compromised. Always has been."

"What?" Harry feels like he's been slapped. "That's impossible. How can they — Did Dumbledore — ?"

Tom makes a noise that sounds almost like a scoff. "No. Someone else."

"Who?"

Tom throws a calculating glance at Harry before answering, "I only know one. A man named Severus. He's a D.E., works for Voldemort."

Harry recalls the greasy haired man from that room in Voldemort's house as well as The Ministry.

_Snape_.

And he's a spy. In  _The Order_.

Harry feels renewed anger at the betrayal. The Order need to know about him. Maybe Harry can tell them when he explains Voldemort's hand in all this —

"I know what you're thinking," Tom interrupts Harry's train of thought. "And, no. We can't tell anyone anything. First, do you really want to be kept up by The Order again? And second, what makes you think their security will be better the second time round? You'd be a sitting duck and I won't be there to help you."

Harry visibly slumps in his seat. Tom's right. He almost forgot that the other man would be taken in if he told them about Voldemort. Harry doesn't even know why he would, but he could always say Tom had nothing to do with it...

But then Ron and Hermione have seen him, and he can't ask them to lie about this. Can he?

Fuck. This whole thing was just a big mess.

Harry's going to be stuck on the run with a psychopath until either a D.E. kills him or someone kills Voldemort.

Slumping in his seat, Harry stares blankly out the window and releases a sigh through his nose. The hand at Tom's side makes a movement as if to reach out but returns to stillness.


	11. Meditative Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was attached to the last chapter but, like, eighteen pages. Eighteen. x_x

"They're here."

The words punch the air like a bullet and Harry's heart rate picks up. Tom remains completely motionless beside him but appears to be listening to something. Harry wishes he could hear it as well when the sound of tyres squealing on the tarmac are heard in the distance. Shortly after, a pair of headlights shine out across the parking lot. Harry blinks at the sudden brightness before they abruptly shut off.

A black car sits in front of them like a hulking animal poised to pounce. Harry chews on his lip nervously.

"Stay inside," Tom commands as he starts to get out. Harry begins to protest, "What? No — Let me co — " The other man's face pushes close and Harry's mouth clicks shut in surprise.  
  
"Stay. Inside." Tom grinds out.

An involuntary shiver runs through Harry and Tom's eyes bore into his for a split second longer than is necessary. He then exhales a soft breath and climbs out of the car. Harry watches his sleek black-coated frame glide over to the car parked across from them and rolls down the window so he can at least hear what's going on.

As soon as Tom's near, two men get out and Harry stiffens with apprehension. But with back straight and hands in his pockets, Tom looks cool as ever.

A man with long hair and a scruffy beard looks over Tom's shoulder at Harry though it should be difficult with such an absence of light.

 _He's most likely a Sentinel then_ , Harry reasons.

"What you got there, eh, Tommy?" Scruffy beard asks, and his bald-headed partner peers with interest into the car where Harry sits. "Don't need to be no Sentinel to know you got a fine piece of Omega arse in there."  
  
Harry grimaces. Then he wonders how Tom reacts because Scruffy Beard's saying, "Yeah, alright. Down, doggy. No need to get all touchy."  
  
"Stop stalling," Harry hears Tom bite out. "The money and passports. NOW."  
  
The two men look to each other and Harry receives a current of disinclination, bravado, and of course, hungry curiosity.  
  
This can't end well.  
  
Baldy holds up a black duffle bag but when Tom steps forward, he refuses to hand it over.  
  
"Now, just a moment there," Scruffy Beard says. He nods in Harry's direction. "I think we deserve a little look-see. Just to see what all this trouble's for, don't you?"  
  
"That wasn't the deal," Tom's voice is low and dangerous. Harry knows the tone too well, and it means this could go bad very quickly.  
  
Harry sighs and opens the car door. As soon as he steps out, Tom whips round and barks, "Get back in the car."  
  
Harry holds firm as he trudges up to them. "No," He says. "If they want a sniff of the great bloody Omega then that's fine by me. As long as we leave with that bag." He directs this at the two men who regard him with unconcealed enjoyment. Harry must seem like some big fucking joke to them. And he probably is.  
  
Tom's black eyes are sharp and hawk-like as they watch Harry step up to them. To be honest, the only thing giving Harry courage is the fact that he's got a gun stuffed down the front of his jeans. (And having one of the most deadly hit men in Britain at his back certainly helped things a bit).

Stance wide, Harry stares defiantly at the two. Scruffy Beard grins wolfishly and exchanges a look with Baldy. The former man leers, "Well, ain't you a pretty thing to behold?"  
  
Harry grits his teeth and throws his arms out at his side, palms facing upward. "Satisfied? Can we do the deal now?" he asks.  
  
Scruffy Beard laughs and his partner joins in. It's not a pleasant sound.  
  
Just as Baldy takes a step forward and the other man starts to say something, Tom cuts them off. "This is taking too long," he says.   
  
And before the words are finished coming out of his mouth, two loud shots pierce the air and send a spray of warm liquid splattering across Harry's face.  
  
Mouth hanging open in shock, Harry stumbles backward.  
  
Distantly, he's aware of a strong metallic taste in his mouth but his vision is blurred red. A half gasp, half gagging sound escapes his lips. He can't move. All he can do is stare at the vague shape of someone piling bodies into the trunk.  
  
"Wha — ? What? Why..." Harry tries to get the words out but doesn't seem to need to finish, because Tom's voice is answering calmly, "They were a liability." He then takes the duffle bag that's on the ground and begins to walk back to their car. "And they would have told the D.E. where we were, probably," he adds.  
  
Harry can feel a anger, wild and uncontrollable, grip him by his throat.  
  
" _Probably?_ " Harry says, and his voice sounds high-pitched even to his own ears. He hasn't moved from his spot, locked in place by an unfocused sense of fear and confusion. He's trying desperately to hold onto his mental shields, pulling them down hard and shutting them locked tight. "You don't know?!"  
  
"I don't negotiate, Harry," Tom replies waspishly. "Not when I know what I want. End of story. Their people are no doubt already after us and most certainly will be once they find their men dead. So may I suggest we keep moving?" He's walking back to the black car with a jerry can and begins to fiddle about in the front seats. When he straightens, he holds up what looks to be a radio. "No doubt wired back to HQ. Happy now?"  
  
Harry can only stare in disbelief. He's following a complete mad man.  
  
Tom's an actual psychopath.  
  
As he tries to hold onto his emotions from pushing past his shields, Harry gives an emphatic, " _No?_ "  
  
Tom doesn't look to be paying him attention any more though, and begins to pour the jerry can of fuel over the bodies in the boot of the car.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing..." Harry mutters but Tom doesn't seem to hear him. Instead he lights a match, throws it in, and slams the boot shut. He then marches back to the car, telling Harry to "Get in." And because he has no idea what else to do, Harry obeys. He scrambles into the passenger side and stares through blood-splattered lenses at the burning car. Long after it disappears from sight, his eyes still don't stray from the windshield.

At some point during their ride Harry's tossed a bag of face wipes from the driver's compartment and told to wash his face. After scrubbing his face and doing his best to clear his glasses lenses, he finds that his hands are shaking. He sits looking at the bloodied wipe and hastily crumples it up into tight fists. There's an acidic taste in the back of his throat and Harry tells himself to focus on breathing deeply to calm his roiling stomach. To his surprise, he finds his shields are holding up strong and solid. All that training must have paid off in the end, though the thought isn't as comforting as Harry hoped it would be.

Harry doesn't even realize they've arrived back at the safe house until Tom's opening his car door and practically hauling him out by his arm.  
Harry blinks his vision into focus and finds they're standing in the garage. His eyes then cast down at the bloodied wipe still clutched in his hands and Tom frowns at him. Following Harry's line of sight, he sees the wipe and rips it out of Harry's hands to stuff it in his own pocket.  
  
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Tom demands. Harry's pale and looks ready to be ill at any moment. He certainly feels like it.  
  
"Hey," Tom urges, stepping closer. "Look at me. Harry, what the fuck?"  
  
Harry swallows and his hands feel like feel limp, dead weights at his side without anything to hold onto.  
  
Harry's voice sounds small and hollow when he finally speaks.  
  
"You killed them," he says. With thinned lips, Tom's eyes narrow. He begins to march Harry into the house as he answers with a simple, "Yes, I did. How very observant of you."  
  
"Oh God..." Harry whispers and pitches forward slightly.  
  
Tom snarls and grabs the front of his shirt to haul him upright. "You saw me kill two of my men back in Voldemort's estate," he grits through clenched teeth. "I don't see how this is any different."  
  
It's a reasonable enough assumption. But a grim and sheepish look passes over Harry's face and Tom stops. Harry mumbles something under his breath but the Sentinel picks it up. He waits until they're in the hallway to say, deadpan, "I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"  
  
Harry glares half-heartedly and repeats, "I said  _I closed my eyes_ , okay?"  
  
Tom's eyes bore into the side of Harry's skull but the latter can't find it in himself to meet that gaze. Not right now. After a long moment passes, Tom sighs and Harry snaps. He yanks himself out of Tom's hold and presses his back against the wall to jab an accusing finger at the other man.  
  
"Hey, look! It's not like I see people die every day, alright? Christ, I mean..." Harry trails off with a huff of laughter that sounds hysterical even to his own ears. He leans heavily against the wall and runs a shaky hand through his hair. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the bullet pass through the head of the man in the parking lot. He can still hear the hollow sounding thumps as two bodies hit the ground in front of him. It's enough to churn Harry's stomach again and he lets out a shuddering sigh and continues, "You'd think this happened to a bloke on a regular basis."  
  
"It does for me."  
  
The words send a flare of anger through Harry. "Well I'm not like you, am I!" he snaps. His throat feels tight, and all of a sudden he can't hold them up any more — His distress starts to eek through his shields and Tom's expression becomes stony. When he speaks, it's with a tone of finality, "No. You're not."  
  
Harry expels a breath of air through his lips, willing all of his anxiety and nerves to dissipate with it.  
  
"If it disturbs your delicate sensibilities, Harry, then please continue to close your eyes. But we both know these won't be the last deaths you witness."  
  
_Jesus_ , Harry thinks darkly. The worst thing is that he can't even dispute the fact. The arsehole's most likely one hundred percent right. It sends Harry tumbling through a new void of despair.  
  
"Fine. Whatever. I'm fucking done with this right now," Harry says and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. He doesn't remove them until he feels something surround him and he's engulfed in heat. Startled, Harry looks up to find Tom hovering extremely close to him. Harry realizes too late that he's completely trapped against the wall. But before he can start to worry about it, Tom's speaking in a low, rumbling voice.  
  
"You were shielding yourself from me," he says.  
  
Harry wishes he can read his tone. Using his empathy seems like cheating, but decides to lick out anyway. What meets him is a dark, simmering kind of emotion — Like possessiveness.  
  
Harry blinks up at Tom and replies, "Yes..."  
  
The other man's eyes harden and he presses closer. "The whole time. You were shutting me out."  
  
Harry swallows. "You seem upset."  
  
"You should never shield yourself from me, Harry."  
  
"But it's all we've been training to do. You said — "  
  
Tom slams his hand down right next to Harry's head, cutting him off. "Never. From. Me." he growls out.  
  
After a moment trying to calm his frantically beating heart, Harry's voice answers softly, "Okay..."  
  
Their eyes lock on each other and the moment seems to stretch on for hours or minutes. Harry's heart steadies into a more heavy rhythm but he can tell that something else is going to happen. It's in the way Tom's leaning in so close. The hot breath on his face and the unwavering black gaze that takes Harry in like a moth to a flame. He doesn't realize he's lost until a strong pair of arms wrap around him and all he can do is drown in the feeling. It's like he's been given a drug and Harry melts into the touch. He can feel the deep inhale right under his ear and the tip of something cold pressed into his neck. He soaks up the surge of comfort and stability that washes into him from somewhere. It mends the tiny cracks in his empathy he didn't realize were there. He has no idea how long he's locked together with Tom like this but when Harry rouses, it's to realize he's almost been  _dozing_.  
  
_In Tom's arms_.  
  
The grip around him tightens, causing a deep flush to creep into Harry's face. When he wriggles and starts to pull away though, the hold on him drops.  
  
And it's fascinating, really. How Tom can manage to look like absolutely nothing happened. Harry finds he's a little resentful and annoyed by this but there's no real conviction behind it.  
  
"I'm going to get some sleep," Harry says, his voice still soft. The atmosphere still feels too fragile and he's loathe to break it. He begins to take the stairs when Tom's voice drifts after him, "We'll be leaving early tomorrow."  
  
"How early?"  
  
"Early."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes but finds he's too tired to demand clarification. He mutters something about ' _Stubborn Sentinel dickheads'_  as he continues to ascend the steps.  
  
Deadpan, Tom calls after him, "I can hear you."  
  
"Really?" Harry asks, the word heavily dripping sarcasm. He locks Tom with a provoking stare all the rest of the way up the staircase until he's out of sight. Tom lets out a soft breath but a small curve lingers across his mouth.  
  


* * *

  
Harry's curled into a little ball and the duvet's been thrown off. Though he's once again drenched in sweat, he's shivering. If one didn't know better they'd think he's terribly ill.

  
But Tom knows better.

Silently, he goes round the bed to stare. His body vibrates with the need to reach out but forces himself to remain still. He doesn't know how long he can last like this. Harry's stubborn, Tom will grant him that. But so is Tom. At the moment, he believes it's all a matter of who will give in first now.

Harry makes a small whimper from the bed and Tom's eyes snap to him. The Guide's brow looks to be scrunched up in pain or pleasure, and the expression strains his willpower.

There's a brief, tense pause. Then comes a whine.

Suddenly Tom's half-kneeling on the ground beside the bed with his hand on Harry's bare shoulder (he must have taken his t-shirt off during the night as well). Within a second of making skin contact, a relieved sigh escapes Harry's lips. His hips then seem to make a small rocking motion and Tom's jaw clenches. But despite his resilience, his fingers can't keep still and they tangle themselves in the damp locks on Harry's forehead. He runs them through his scalp and Harry's panting now. His sweat-slick chest rises and falls with his laboured breathing. Tom watches it all avidly, when green eyes like a vast meadow, snap open. Although dazed at first, they quickly focus once they land on Tom.

Tom can almost see the moment something in Harry shuts down, boards up, and the presence that filled the room before is gone. He wants to howl from the loss — From that something which felt so  _right_. Like it belongs to him. But he knows this is his Sentinel instincts and not logic speaking.

Tom's hand drops to the edge of the mattress and rests there, limp. He continues to stay frozen in his crouch next to the bed as Harry scuttles all the way to the other side. His glistening chest heaves and his hair's in more of a disheveled state than normal. All traces of sleep are now gone from his wary green eyes, leaving only apprehension. They're strangely bright in the darkness and Tom's hand flexes minutely against the sheets.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Harry rasps, voice still hoarse from his restless sleep.

"You're making a lot of noise," Tom answers almost conversationally. He then lifts his finger to tap his temple twice. Harry frowns but a flush has crept up his face and neck. Tom's eyes travel its path down to his chest, mapping it.

A spike of tension, thick and heady, causes Tom's gaze to focus back on Harry's face.

"Look, it's fine. Just side-effects from the suppressors," Harry says dismissively, and shifts around on the bed to try and cover himself. He's trying to avoid Tom's eyes. But Tom can see the dejection written plainly on his face. The humiliation and tiredness underlying his tone. It's all Tom's needs to know he's had enough.

In an abrupt movement Tom stands to go round to Harry's side of the bed. The other man's eyes widen and his knees draw up to his chest until his back's pressed against the headboard. His eyes are mesmerizingly clear, almost vulnerable without his glasses.

"I can help with that," Tom insists, face intense. Harry stares and his lips thin into a tight line. Tom can already see the vehement refusal before it forms on his lips. So he leans in and breathes hot against Harry's ear, "Let me take the edge off."

And that's all it takes.  
  
With his resolve already weakened by his second night of restless sleep, Harry's giving in. After the day they've had and however long Harry's had to survive without a Sentinel's touch to ease him through his heats, it's no wonder that with just a little pleading injected into his voice, Tom's got Harry in the palm of his hand. Green eyes shutter and his Adam's Apple bobs in a deep swallow. Soft, pink lips part and Tom tries desperately to abate his own arousal. This needs to be Harry's decision.  
  
"Tom..."

The word sounds like the start of Harry trying to fight himself again. Tom can't understand why the man willingly denies himself, and for what? Pride? Some skewed sense of moral belief? Maybe he's saving himself for the 'right one' to come along.

Or most likely, he's just stupid enough to think his genetic makeup won't catch up with him. That he can simply wish away his Omega needs through sheer willpower. An inexplicable rush of blood pumps hot and angry through Tom's veins at the thought. Impatience prickles at his skin.

"Let me help you," Tom insists, his voice hoarse with his own need now. He can see how it sends a visible shudder through Harry and impossibly he burns even more. Harry clears his throat before speaking the words Tom's been waiting to hear all along:

"Okay."

Triumph like liquid honey courses through Tom. He doesn't stop to check if it's hidden from Harry, but by the insistent erection pressing against his thigh and the way the other man openly stares at his lips, Tom doesn't think he cares that much about it.  
  
But he's not in the clear yet.  
  
The slightest use of force can easily send Harry struggling, and Tom knows he won't be able to stop even if he wants to. His Sentinel senses would only see it as a challenge and bare down more. To try and dominate, fuck, and breed Harry to within an inch of his life.

Tom wants it. He presses close and watches as Harry leans into him. He wants to lick a long stripe up that tantalizing stretch of skin on Harry's neck when he hears the breathed words, "I don't want to sleep with you."

Tom freezes. He pulls back slightly to eye Harry with a calculating gaze. Did he push too much? His mind races to quickly rectify the situation.

When he feels Tom hesitate, Harry looks up to meets the other's gaze. Licking his dry lips, Harry continues, "I just need you to touch me. Hold my hand or something."

It's painful to say aloud but Harry forces it out through his mortification. He doesn't want to be consumed. To be tied down for ever as some Sentinel's slave or second-class citizen.

Tom pulls away and apprehension floods Harry for the second time that night. He expects Tom to leave, to say 'Forget it.' and demand it's all or nothing.  
  
But then he's saying something else entirely: "I have a condition of my own then."

It's Harry's turn to stop dead. His eyes snap to Tom again and his shoulders sag.  
  
"Of course you do," Harry sighs warily. "What is it then?"

"I want to bite you."

Harry's heart gives a jolt in his chest and Tom listens to the sound with fascination. He watches as the other man's hand comes up to cover his neck.

"No. Absolutely not," Harry grits, eyes flashing. Tom notes the alluring hint of steel in the deep green and sends him a razor sharp smile.  
  
"Not there," Tom clarifies, and lets his eyes fall over the other man's frame to finally land on a spot. With a long pale hand he reaches out and lightly touches Harry's wrist.  
Harry's heart gives another flutter as fingers brush the inside of his arm. The touch sends tingles and tiny shivers through him, making it hard to keep from letting out an embarrassing sound.

Their eyes meet and Tom can see the last shreds of resolve finally crumble away. He watches as Harry averts his eyes and the pink flush returns to his face and neck.

"Fine." Comes the reply, quiet and resigned.

Tom would revel in the victory but doesn't trust that it'll be completely hidden from the other man.

Harry slowly lowers himself back against the pillows. Though if Tom had his way, he'd have pushed him down there himself, climbed on top, and pinned him by his wrists. He ignores the thought, distracting as it is.

Harry's eyes flick to the other side of the bed. Gathering the meaning, Tom climbs on and settles himself beside Harry.

"You're too close," Harry says.

A low hum like the beginnings of a growl erupts from Tom's throat. Reluctantly, he shifts a bit to allow Harry more space. Then Harry's pulling the blanket over him, hiding himself.

"Don't look at me."

"You're very demanding," Tom snipes.

"And  _you_ were the one that wanted to help. I can do just fine on my own."

Tom sends him a quelling look that says they both know that's a lie.

Harry shuts his eyes tight and Tom watches from the corner of his as a bead of sweat trickles down Harry's temple to disappear in the thick head of black hair. His gaze then travels down to the small movement of the blanket where the other man tries bring himself release.  
  
"Seems like you might need a bit of encouragement," Tom observes.

Harry's eyes snap open and his already flushed face turns a shade darker. "Shut up," he says. "I'm trying to..." He blows out a blustery air of frustration.  
  
"There's no 'trying' involved. As far as I can see, you could probably come just from the sound of my voice.  _Harry_ ," Tom prods.  
  
Harry turns scarlet at his words, his breath hitching. "Look, it's hard enough doing this in front of you. But when your irritating voice keeps...!" He trails off again on a small intake of breath and Tom suspects it's the exact opposite. Harry  _wants_  him to talk. To hear the sound of his voice coaxing him through orgasm. The revelation sends a swell of pleasure straight to Tom's already interested cock. He files this information away for future use though, and instead turns his efforts to the designated part of Harry he's allowed to reach.

Harry's head turns to face away from the other man and shuts his eyes tight again. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to just get on with it. But all he can think about is Tom's hand that starts sliding up and down his arm in surprisingly gentle, slow strokes. It covers the back of Harry's hand and long fingers intertwine with his, squeezing.

And only because he can't help it, Harry finds himself squeezing back.

His toes curl beneath the duvet, wanting more but not daring to say it out loud. Meanwhile his other hand's resumed touching his straining, overheated cock, and pumps it slowly.  
  
Then Harry's hand is being lifted, and he can't help turning his head on the pillow to see. The sight that greets him is one of Tom ghosting hot lips against the underside of his forearm. Harry's eyes widen and he starts to make a squawk of protest when he's hopelessly caught in the void-like gaze that's trained on him. It pulls him in like a magnet and he can't tear his eyes away. Tom's blown black pupils bore into Harry as he mouths his wrist and gives it a teasing nip.

"Fuck," Harry jerks, his hand tightening around his prick.  _Oh, God_ , he thinks. He isn't going to last long like this. Though he's not sure why he'd even want to. This is already mortifying enough as it is.   
  
Tom's completely silent, licking and nibbling at the inside of his arm, hot breath ghosting the soft skin inside his elbow. Harry's so close. He can feel the pressure build from the very centre of his being, scorching him from the inside out. He knows he should look away. He should try and stop this. This wasn't the deal.

But then Tom bites down. Hard.

Harry's cry echoes through the dark room as his orgasm surges out of him. He arches, head thrown back against the pillows as opalescent stripes decorate his stomach and fingers. The force of it leaves him lax and spent. His limbs feel heavy and rest like dead weights on the mattress. Harry thinks he's never been more content than he's ever remembered being. Sleeps hangs over him like a sweet promise. Still panting, he can't help his eyes rove over Tom on the other side of the bed. But it's too dark to see anything and Tom's already getting up. Then the light from the crack in the curtains lights up his profile and Harry can see the impressive bulge in his trousers. His breath catches and his spent cock gives a valiant twitch. If he isn't so exhausted, Harry's sure he'd be rock hard again. It makes him think how he can survive much longer without taking a mate. People have done it before. They do it all the time.   
  
But then they probably didn't have an Alpha Sentinel trying to break them down every second of the day. Or a dangerous organization out to kill them.   
  
No, those other Guides and Omegas had peace and distance and support to properly deal with their heats and irrational moments of weaknesses.   
  
Harry, on the other hand, had none.

Harry rips his eyes away from the alluring sight of Tom to brace himself for the oncoming wave of shame and embarrassment. But just as soon as it arrives, the bed dips and Harry finds Tom hovering over him again. Both of his arms boxing him in.

"Stop that," Tom says in a low rumble. Harry just stares as beady eyes travel from his face down to his neck. He can feel Tom's hand make a movement but instead of touching him, he pulls away instead. Harry almost goes with him. Almost.

The Sentinel grunts out one word, "Sleep." before the door clicks shut and Harry's plunged into darkness and silence once again. A shuddering sigh escapes his lips before he takes Tom's advice and drifts off into an exhausted sleep.  
  


* * *

  
"Any news of the call left for Mr. Hagrid?" Dumbledore asks.

A brief probe of the emotions in the room, however, tells him his answer.

"They couldn't trace it. The signal led to a waste bin in central London where a disposable was found," The stern tone of McGonagall's voice reports. She holds a file in her hands and flips through a page, her eyes scanning the information through her square reading glasses. She continues, "Unfortunately, the device was wiped clean of data and prints. But the IT department are still working to get what they can from it."

Dumbledore remains silent for a long time. He moves to his office window, his gaze far-off. It makes McGonagall wonder if he's heard her at all. But when she asks what he'd like to do, he turns and sends her a weary smile.

"Everything is in it's place now, I'm afraid. I'm not certain there's anything more we can do."

McGonagall pinches her lips but gives a curt nod. She removes her glasses and lets them hang from her neck on a thin silver chain but makes no move to go. Dumbledore raises a curious brow to see her lingering.

"I can't help but wonder why you've told Severus of the location of the safehouse. The Weasley home?" She clipped, and Dumbledore's amused to hear it directed at him like he were one of her new assistants. "I don't imagine I need remind you he  _is_  a Mute."

"And fortunate for us that Voldemort isn't a Guide," Dumbledore replies calmly.

"Nevertheless —"

"Minerva, I trust him with my own life. Severus has had plenty of training in shielding his mind, almost as if he were a Guide." She stares at him with worried eyes. He continues, "I know you do not approve, but it's what has been decided."

She straightens her pencil skirt though it's always spotless and pristine.

"I only wish you'd have informed me of this plan earlier," She says.

Dumbledore turns a soft smile on her. It's almost affectionate and makes her feel like when she began working for the Order at the age of twenty-one.

"I was under the impression that I was doing so," He says and earns a minute shake of the head before McGonagall turns to leave.

"If that's all," She begins to say as her heels clip-clop on the floor to the door. But before her hand can reach the handle, Dumbledore says, "He will give them a location."

McGonagall whips back round, her back straightening. She narrows her hawk-like eyes and lifts a thin brow in that very familiar and particular way she has that causes the new interns to shake with nerves.

"And I assume he'll give an incorrect one?" McGonagall states more than asks. Dumbledore's eyes twinkle and her shoulders relax. She nods her head stiffly. "All's the better. I wish I had the same faith you hold for Severus, but when one is in his particular position, it's hard to fake allegiance where there is none."

Dumbledore watches as the Sentinel woman leaves, her mind slightly more at ease than it'd been during their conversation.

As for his own mind, there will be little rest and a more brittle trust than everyone assumes he has.   
  
Gazing out of his office window, Dumbledore can't help but ponder on how right McGonagall is. It's hard to falsify allegiance to a side when it's unclear whether you have one or not. But then the expression comes to him:  _Something,_ as they say _, will have to give._


	12. I Feel Connected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I have returned!](http://33.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m647uatAkL1rqunrlo1_500.gif) Sorry I've been abysmal with updating this. Last few months have been chaos w/ trying to settle into a new home, course, country, etc. I'll have to ask for your patience during this time. But I'd like to acknowledge those who left me such nice comments in the interim. You guys are awesome.

Harry wakes to the stark grey light of an English morning. For the first few moments after prying open his eyes he finds he can't move let alone get out of bed. His limbs are sluggish and tired though his mind's already churning to process what's happened in the last twenty-four hours.

He's had to do this a lot for the past week or two; Wake up and have to figure out where he is. Whether it's all been a dream or not.

But no such luck this time either. With a grunt, he drags himself out of bed and is suddenly aware of a dry and itchy substance on his stomach and underwear. Glancing down, Harry grimaces. He's in need of a serious shower. He should have cleaned up after...

Harry groans into his hands.

_God. Last night._

Harry pushes the thought from his mind like an unwelcome insect. Instead he busies himself with grabbing that quick shower. Hopefully he'll get through the day and pretend nothing happened.

It's a far-fetched hope to begin with. So Harry shouldn't be surprised when he comes downstairs to find Tom calmly sitting at the kitchen table, dressed, groomed, and cool as anything. The toe of his shiny leather shoes flick underneath the table. He glances up from his scan of the iPad in front of him to give Harry a definite  _look_.

And that right there. In at that moment. Harry knows he should never have doubted this man would ever let him forget.

The look Tom levels Harry makes the Guide squirm and vibrate like a plucked string on a harp. His muscles strain against the sudden desire to rush over and bare his neck. Irritation prickles at Harry and his hackles raise. Why did he ever let this happen? Was he so weak? He should have known Tom would take advantage. He should've expected the moment when Tom would take what he could from him.

A steady flow of  _want, satisfaction_ ,  _anticipation_ hooks its claws into Harry then and he spins to face Tom with a glare. This might be the Sentinel's fault but Harry let himself give in last night.

And there's no way in hell he'll let himself give in again.

* * *

The Guide's acting strange this morning. But it's nothing Tom didn't expect. The jumpiness. The oozing resentment that settles in the room along with the disgust.

Somehow expecting it doesn't save Tom from being irritated by it.

Harry's pushing him away. Can hardly be in the same space as him for more than a few minutes. This doesn't escape Tom's notice but he's a patient man. He decides to wait it out. He'll let Harry have this little rebellion. The other man needs to work himself through whatever hang-ups he has about letting himself rely on a Sentinel's help.

At least this is the plan until the sounds of the morning news drift into the kitchen and he's hit by a chaotic mess of empathy. It pulls him, taut and alert, into the living room where he sees Harry standing, staring at the television set. When Tom's able to concentrate on the words being said over Harry's loud  _LIAR, DANGER, TROUBLE_ , it's to hear the TV blaring out news of an investigation.

Ah. The investigation on Voldemort.

Tom thinks back to the article he read this morning on his tablet. He likes to keep up to date with his enemies' current situations. And apparently Voldemort's been found innocent of any kidnapping or security misconduct.   
  
His attention switches back to Harry who remains silent except for the clear waves of distress seeping out of him.

"Stop it. You're projecting," Tom snaps.

Either Harry doesn't hear him or he's too distracted by his own turmoil, but he simply turns his stunned gaze on Tom. With a snarl Tom clamps his hand down on Harry's arm in an attempt to focus him.

"Did you know about this?" Harry asks.

It's almost too soft to hear over the sound of the TV and Harry's unceasing projecting. Tom blinks and Harry seems to take that as an answer. His face creases further in a mixture of anger and worry. Tom feels him trying to pull himself back but proves the struggle futile after another moment passes.

Tom drops his hand to the exposed skin of Harry's wrist just below the cuff of his shirt.

The effect is instantaneous. Clarity sweeps away the fog in Tom's mind and dulls the static to a whisper.

But then the relaxing tendons under his palm seize and Harry wrenches out of his grip.

"Stop that! You're not my bondmate!" Harry snarls.

Something black and monstrous surges inside Tom, expanding out to eat up the space in the room. Harry's knees feel weak under the weight of it. He fights against the unbearable urge to kneel and beg for forgiveness.

But in the next moment the presence is quickly extinguished.

Harry shudders and reels at the sudden, dizzying absence. He can feel a sharp noise begin in the back of his throat, threatening to emerge as a whine. Harry pushes it down with effort. In a brittle voice Harry says, "I-I'm not yours. I can deal with my own projections."

Tom stares at him for a beat longer than is comfortable.

Harry adds, more stronger this time, "It won't happen again."

The black gaze hardens, turning into that unwavering look Harry knows too well by now.

This is dangerous.

Unease begins to trickle down Harry's spine. He suddenly realizes he's not receiving anything again: Tom's completely shut off. Harry can't help but feel responsible for the withdrawal. (He can't possibly have hurt Tom's feelings, could he?)

Harry takes a tentative step back and quickly realizes this as a mistake.

The tall and silent body surges forward.

Harry's line of sight is suddenly taken up by razor sharp cheekbones and rose pink lips pulled back over straight white teeth. Blood pounds in Harry's ears but he forces his body to remain completely still. There's something wild in the inky depths of Tom's eyes. Something unsettled and barely contained that Harry doesn't want to upset. Harry has a feeling Tom's trying desperately to lock in as much of it as he can.

More minutes pass until Tom seems to calm down a bit, or at least go into a sort of daze. He leans even closer into Harry's space, eyes bright and fixated. Harry still doesn't move though he knows what's coming with a singular, quivering certainty.

With the first soft breath of air against his lips, Harry closes his eyes.

For a long moment it's just hot breath panting against his mouth, harsh and heavy like Tom just ran a marathon. Then there's the soft press of cool fingertips at Harry's throat, wrapping around his neck but not squeezing. A nose nudges his cheek and Harry can't decide whether he wants to accept the invitation or not. He ends up tipping his chin down to avoid any misunderstandings and feels the fingers around his throat tighten an increment in response.

Minutes tick by where Tom contents himself with the feel of a strong, steady rhythm of Harry's heartbeat tap against the palm of his hand. The quiver of the soft tendon of flesh where a bite would fit so well...

Tom's thumb comes to rub at the raspberry flush of Harry's bottom lip and something deep inside him roars with desire. He leans in, poised to pounce. To bite, lick, suck —

The sharp electric buzz of a mobile phone cuts through the air.

Harry's breath catches and Tom stills. The noise continues and Harry watches as the strange, primal fog dissipates from Tom's eyes. They remain hooded but the man seems to be coming back to himself. He glances down at a screen procured from his pocket and stuffs it back in before Harry can catch the message.

When Tom's eyes meet Harry's again it's as if the last few minutes never happened. The expression that gazes back is stone cold sober and contained.

"Meetup at eleven," Tom says.

* * *

Peter Pettigrew paces in front of his second floor window, phone clutched in his shaking hand. On the other end of the call is a long silence. Then Voldemort's cold voice comes through.

"Passports. That's what he's coming to collect?"  
  
"Y-yes, sir," Peter answers. He parts the thin lacy curtains his mother hung up a few months before she died and peers down at the street below. It's as vacant as it'd been a minute ago when he last checked.

Voldemort makes a contemplative humming sound on the other end. Paranoia pricks at Peter's brain.  
  
"This is good news, Pettigrew. I always knew you were a valuable asset to us."  
  
Peter feels a cool wash of relief until Voldemort continues: "I'll have a couple of the boys come down and make sure the little snake doesn't bite one of our most loyal members."  
  
Peter shuffles the phone to his other ear as his free hand tugs and scratches at the thinning hair on his scalp. "Sir, I was hoping I could — "  
  
"Thought you could run out on the job before it's done? Oh no, Pettigrew," He sounds disappointed now. "And just when I thought you were being helpful..."  
  
"No! No, of course not, sir. It's only that — " Peter utters a nervous chuckle. "Well, you see, he's a very  _persistent_  Alpha ..."  
  
There's a noise like distant thunder when Voldemort snarls, "I am the only Alpha you need worry about."  
  
Peter jumps at the abruptly vicious tone. Reverberations of power thrum under each word, loud and clear even through the phone. Peter hastily squeaks out an apology, "Yes! Yes, how silly of me. I'm so sorry, Mr Voldemort. There is no better Alpha Sentinel than you."

"Alpha  _Hybrid_  now, Pettigrew," Voldemort chastises in a low growl. Peter once again goes through a rigmarole of apologies when Voldemort cuts him off.

"That will do," says Voldemort. "Backup will be there shortly. And Pettigrew?"

Peter lets out an anxious breath. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"Do not disappoint me."  
  
Peter begins to say something when the sound of the dial tone meets his ears and he hangs up. Licking his lips, Peter's hands rub together nervously and he resumes pacing in front of the window. Then the distant sound of two car doors slamming reaches him from outside and he yanks back the curtains.

He first catches the sight of the infamous Omega Guide, his face now so familiar to Peter from countless news coverage, hours staring at his files and his passport photo. Harry Potter jogs to catch up to the taller figure of Tom Riddle whose dark gaze has just flickered away from the window Peter stands from. Tiny shivers run through Peter now as the cold fear continues to seize his heart in a vice-like grip. At that moment he doesn't know which is worse: Voldemort's wrath or Tom's.

* * *

Voldemort places the phone back on its receiver and looks up. Rowle and Dolohov stand before him, awaiting their orders. Bella's manic energy is also there, lurking in the corner of his office and watching them with bright, interested eyes.

"I want you to go to the meetup. Watch them but  _do not engage_. Is that clear?" Voldemort orders.  
  
Two heads nod their understanding. A slow smile allows itself onto Voldemort's cold, thin lips.   
  
"Good. I want them alive when you retrieve them. I think they both deserve a...  _special_  farewell after all this effort they've put in to avoid me."  
  
An excited squawk erupts from Bella's corner and she clasps her hands together in glee, eyes regarding Voldemort with unconcealed awe.

"Yes sir," Rowle answers, and the two of them leave to do Voldemort's bidding.

When the room is finally empty but for the two of them, Bella approaches Voldemort's desk with slow, careful steps. A desperate and pleading look rims her eyes.

"Sir, send  _me_. Why do Dolohov and Rowle get to have all the fun?" She starts in on a whining tone. "You know I can do it. I've never failed you before. I'll find them and wrap them up so nicely for you, I will. "  
  
"Ah, my faithful little pet," Voldemort begins. "Of course I'm aware of your particular talent for carrying out my more difficult assignments. But I need them  _alive_  and you are too eager for death. An admirable quality but the wrong one for this job."  
  
A pout begins to form on her lips and he captures her chin in a sharp grip. He tuts.

"Now, enough of that," He says, eyes liquid steel and tongue sharp. Force seems to be the only language that Bellatrix understands. Another reason why sending her on such a delicate assignment would be disastrous. No, Voldemort would send the rabid dog when all other possibilities are exhausted. "You'll have your chance to play with them. But only after I do."  
  
Bella smiles, revealing too sharp teeth.

She answers in a breathy voice, "Oh  _thank you,_ sir."

* * *

Peter's just a little too slow coming down the stairs in time as the door bell already rang.

He opens the door to the pale, angular face of Tom framed by neat black hair. A more messy head of dark hair pops up over his shoulder to regard Peter with green eyes behind a stylish pair of wayfarer glasses.

"Pettigrew," Tom greets him. His gaze is too watchful and penetrating. It puts Peter even more on edge and he licks his lips nervously.  
"Tom," Peter replies as evenly as he can and moves to the side to let them in. "So glad you could make it."

When they're both inside Peter can't help but glance outside for any sign of the promised backup.

Still nothing.

Peter tries not to let his panic rise and settles them in the living room to wait before going to collect their papers upstairs. He knows not to do anything stupid as Tom's no doubt honed in on every movement with his Sentinel hearing.

When Peter ambles back down to give them the requested papers and passports, Tom's still looking at him with unblinking eyes. Harry's own are watching Tom with confusion and slight wariness, if Peter can read the sharp lines of his body correctly. The Guide must be picking up something more distressing about Peter's fate than he can at the moment.

Peter swallows hard as he hands over the things to Tom, attempting a placating smile. "Something wrong?" He asks.  
  
"I was hoping you could tell me that," Tom answers evenly.  
  
The words are like a stab to Peter's gut. He laughs nervously which might have been his first mistake. But that can't be, Peter thinks as he glances at the deadly serious gaze trained on him. Tom probably caught his first mistake before he and the Guide even came through the door.

"What are you talking about, Tom? The paperwork came through. Everything's in order," Peter says, putting in a last attempt to put the Sentinel at ease.

But he should have remembered Tom isn't thrown off easily.

Harry's looking back and forth between Tom and Peter with an increasingly alarmed look.

Tom hums, carefully placing the passports and papers on the dented and stained wooden coffee table.

"Well, Pettigrew, your body tells me differently," He says calmly. "Your heart rate is a hundred beats per minute. An odd number for a man in his mid-fifties, wouldn't you say?"

Peter stares at Tom who stares back.

"I-I don't know what to tell you, Tom."

A beat of silence. Peter feels like he's put the last nail in his coffin.

"Tell me the truth."

Peter feels a breath of air escape him as he tries to grasp the last shreds of hope he has of turning this situation around. But all that happens is him gaping like a fish, words unable to form in his mouth. What does he say? When will the backup be here? They should be here by now.

"Does he know where we are?" Tom says, voice still eerily calm. But his eyes have turned sharp.

Peter's heart rate picks up even more speed and suddenly he knows with a sickening certainty that this is it. There's no backup. No one's coming to save him this time.

Perspiration begins to form on his temple and his palms sweat and shake.

Tom gets up and stalks over to where Peter stands, causing the latter to back up until he hits the dining room table with a clatter.

On the other side of the room, Harry jumps up from the couch at the sudden shift of energy in the room.

Tom grabs a fistful of his sweat stained shirt.

"Does. He. Know," Tom grinds out.

"I don't — I can't — " Peter stammers. Tom hauls him to the ground beside the table with a crashing thud on the creaky floorboards. Pain blooms at the back of Peter's skull where it hit the floor. When he opens his eyes it's to stare down the barrel of a .9 millimeter. His eyes widen comically and his lower lip quivers, a sob beginning to lodge in his throat.

"Tom!" Harry cries.

"Shut up, " Tom says this to Harry before turning back to Peter. "Did you tell him where we are? How long before they get here?"

Peter opens his mouth but all that comes out is more stammering, fumbling words that sound like sobs.

A sneer curls Tom's lip as he looks down at him. He straightens and Peter can see the tiny motion of his thumb pull back the hammer on the gun.  
  


Harry's heart surges but his feet remain stuck. When he catches sight of the gun he's already bringing up what influencing emotion he can to try and stop the outcome of this situation.

From the floor a vulnerable, crying mess of a man pleads for his life.  
  
And Tom just looks  _bored_.  
  
But then Harry's empathy finally manages to reach Tom and the other man simply shakes off the weak attempt like a stray breeze. He proceeds to pull back the hammer with a soft, deadly  _click_  and a shout claws its way up Harry's throat.  
  
" _No._ "  
  
Too late. He can't reign in his empathy fast enough.

The shot rings out and he feels it tear through him; through flesh and blood and bone. But the worst is the emptiness that follows. Of something being snapped and cut off, abrupt and  _crushing_  in its nothingness. With no focus on Tom, his empathy latched on to the nearest living thing it could;  
  
Pettigrew, just as he died.

Harry's world teeters precariously for a horrifying second. His vision blurs and then sharpens until he's able to feel the ground beneath him again. He feels like he's going to be sick.

Tom's white face comes into focus first, his jaw clenched tight and black eyes stunned. He stares at Harry with an indecipherable look before jerking into motion. Harry rears back, throwing out an arm. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" he yells.

Tom freezes just a step away, suspended in motion like a puppet on strings. He looks like he's been slapped and takes a second longer than usual to recover. Then the mask quickly slips into place and he appears to be the man Harry first met in Grimmauld Place; Unrecognizable and mechanical in his inhuman efficiency.

Tom marches over to to the table, gathers up the passports and heads toward the door. Harry stares at the lifeless body of Peter Pettigrew lying motionless in a heap on the floor. A steady stream of dark red blood drips from the tiny hole in his head. Open and vacant eyes stare back at Harry. With lungs suddenly straining for air, Harry clambers up to follow Tom out the front door.

His head still swims when he climbs into the car. Harry closes his eyes and the sight that greets him behind closed lids is one he expects: Pettigrew. Dead. Another body to the growing pile caught up in this mess because of him.

Harry hardly notices when the car starts and they drive off down the road in silence. What he is aware of is the growing coldness seeping in and around him and Tom. Whether it's the aftermath of feeling Pettigrew's death or because Tom's closed himself off, Harry isn't sure. And at the moment, he doesn't really care.  
But it's heavy like a thick blanket of snow, blocking off a connection he didn't known existed until now. Could it be Harry's fault? He can't tell if he's the one shutting Tom out. The one responsible for making it painful for them both even though they don't have a bond; Tom hasn't claimed or bitten him yet.  
  
Shit. Harry can't think. He doesn't know. There's only one thing he's certain about, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

It shouldn't feel like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter's mostly written so there shouldn't be too long of a wait for that. (God forbid.)


	13. Bello Criminale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd be getting this out early but decided last minute to scrap it all and _rewrite it three more times_. (Felt like I was waffling a bit.) Also, assignments and stuff have been taking up all my free time. But now it's the holidays! So viola - the next chapter. :)  
>  Thanks for all your comments. They're so precious to me and I'm sorry I'm so lame at replying to them.

They drive for two hours. Dark eyes flicker to the rear view mirror at every five minute interval, searching. Neither one of them has said a word.

Harry shivers hollowly, rests his head against the window and stares out at the scenery blurring past. Something like a loose tether flaps about uselessly inside him.

Fuck, how can Tom even stand this?

Into the unbearable silence, Harry's voice barely comes out as a whisper.

"How can you do that?" he says.

Tom glances at him from the corner of his eye. There's no need for Harry to clarify what, exactly, 'that' is.

"I only brought an inevitable outcome closer," Tom says.

Of course, Harry thinks bitterly. Of course Tom deflects.

Harry isn't sure he wants to hear the truth but hiding from it isn't looking like an option. Hot tears prick at his eyes and he hisses, " _Tell me_."

Tom's gaze sharpens and his mouth presses into a grim line. There's a long moment before he actually answers. "It's not exactly difficult," he says, and gives small roll of his shoulder. Harry recognizes it for Tom's version of a shrug. "In fact, it's much too easy at times."

Harry seems neither pleased nor comforted by this but Tom doesn't expect anything else.

"It's my work, Harry. My purpose. I chose this and trained for it," Tom continues.

A bitter frown mars Harry's features. He shakes his head a little as he stares out the window. "How?" he asks. "Why would you?"

Something chilling reaches out and expands in the small space of the car. A dark cloud swirling with some unnameable emotion, too complex for Harry to figure out. All he can sense is a kind of anger underneath it all, driving it. He looks over to find Tom wearing a shuttered expression. Harry knows every man has his secrets but he almost doesn't want to think what Tom's could be. Which is why a bond could never work.

Any kind of relationship with this man will never _work_. And yet...

Harry can feel a pull. There's an invisible thread through all the coldness seeping inside him. Something fragile connecting him and Tom despite everything, tying them together.

Harry screws his eyes shut. "God," he bites out. "Damn it all."

Harry presses his fists to his eyes, beyond frustrated and tired of everything. Tom knows, can feel it too. Not only because Harry's projecting again.

Tom waits. He's good at waiting.

Harry's agonized expression reflects in the glass of the passenger side window. The smothering emptiness is becoming unbearable. Harry must feel it.

Still, Tom waits.

Green eyes turn to face Tom in the driver's seat again. "Stop the car," Harry says brokenly.

Tom's face hardens. He warns, "Harry."

"Just stop the _fucking car_."

The car lurches as Harry grabs the wheel. They swerve into the next lane before careening off the road altogether. Tom curses and tries to regain control of the steering wheel. He doesn't expect the sudden move and for once is powerless to stop it. The car jerks and jumps as they bounce onto the uneven ground on the side of the road.

Before anything else can happen, Harry launches himself out of the passenger side door. Tom quickly follows, slamming open the door from the driver's seat and vaulting after Harry.

Harry only gets a few feet into the green field before he's roughly grabbed round the waist and hauled back against a solid body. A frustrated and angry sound rips from his throat. Limbs fly as Harry tries to scramble and wrench himself out of the iron hold. "Just let me go, you fucking bastard!" he yells. "I've had enough, I've SEEN enough! I want out, I want it to end, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!"

The arms around him suddenly drop away and Harry lands on the grass with a heavy thud. He quickly scrambles up and chest heaving with pants, snarls at Tom.

"I don't need your help anymore, alright? So just leave me alone."

When Tom doesn't flinch or make a single move to stop him, Harry turns to trudge back through the field. He has no intention of ever turning back now. His choice has been made.

Then three words drift across the breeze, solid and factual.

"You do care."

Harry stops. With great reluctance, he looks back.

Tom's expression is calm, almost detached when he repeats, "You care too fucking much."

Harry's mouth does a funny thing then. It twists as emotion sends fracture lines across his face. Tense shoulders sag as his chest heaves with a silent, dry sob.

The wind blows another fresh, cool breeze through the field. It ripples over the green grass like a gentle wave. The sun casts a soft, blinding light through the clouds. It's delicate and serene in a way that's at odds with the current moment.

Eventually Tom turns to walk back to the car.

"Now help me push this thing back onto the bloody road."

* * *

A tiny split forms in the ice. Harry can feel it and has no doubt Tom can too. But still an obvious and aching absence lingers which neither of them will address.

They drive for an hour and thirty minutes until Harry's aware of a pulsing pain just behind his right eye. "Stop over, will you?" he says, and at Tom's look he adds, "I need to go to the loo."

"We'll stop on the side of the road."

"I'm hungry," Harry snaps.

Tom's hands clench on the steering wheel but he says nothing as the car pulls into an exit lane headed for a gas station.

Before the engine even cuts off, Harry leaps from the car and heads into the _On the Run_ and retrieves a key for the toilets. On his way there he casts a quick glance over to Tom beside the car. He's filling up the tank and seems to be scanning the area, looking for something. His nose twitches and his eyes snap up to find Harry's. Harry ignores him and shoves open the door to go straight to the sinks. He rips his glasses off and throws them on the counter with a clatter as the heel of his hand presses into his right eye. He leans over the sink and tries to take a steadying breath.

God, why now? This can't just be because he's shut off from...

Harry doesn't even want to acknowledge the idea that there's any thing to be cut off from in regards to Tom.

A distinct feeling of dread looms over him like an ominous cloud. It feels like Harry's back in 12 Grimmauld Place again, waiting for Tom to come in and destroy everything he holds dear.

Harry's breath catches. _It's exactly like Grimmauld Place._

This isn't just a normal headache. It's a presence. Two, in fact. Harry's hand drops and he looks up to stare at his reflection in the water-speckled mirror.

Shit.

Harry bursts out of the toilets with as much calm and composure as he can only to find that Tom's disappeared from beside the car. Harry's heart kicks up a strong rhythm in his chest as he heads into the convenience store and instantly spots Tom at the till paying for the gas. Without breaking stride, Harry sidles up to him until their shoulders brush. He can feel Tom stiffen beside him before relaxing as he recognizes who it is. Tom must realize then that something is off as Harry doesn't tend to perform such a fine job of masking his scent and presence unless he has a real reason to.

Harry leans in to breathe as quietly as he can into Tom's ear. "They're here."

Tom doesn't react beyond finishing the movement of accepting his change from the cashier. With his other hand, he passes Harry a set of keys. "Wait for me in the car," he says lowly.

A muscle in Harry's jaw flexes but he nods and turns to leave. From his peripheral, Tom catches two heads in the store turn to watch. Something fiery and hot surges and flares out at the perceived threat. The other Sentinels seem to sense it and turn to look at him.

The next moment is a blur of motion.

Tom's suddenly on the other side of the store and colliding against Rowle. Dolohov doesn't bother to stick around to help and heads after Harry. Shouts of surprise and fear erupt from the other customers. The warning yell from the cashier isn't enough to stop what happens next.

Harry's still standing at the door and looking at the scene with wide eyes as customers race past him to get out.

" _Go_ ," Tom yells. But Harry — the idiot — stays completely still. A look comes over his face which Tom recognizes as his bravery taking charge.

Seems the fight will be more difficult than first imagined.

When Dolohov reaches Harry, the Guide fixes him with a wild gaze before lashing out his arm towards the Sentinel's neck. Dolohov makes a choking noise and when Harry's arm pulls back, he clutches his throat and staggers backward. Something sharp juts from between Harry's fingers — it's the car keys, the tip smeared with blood. Tom finds a brief moment to be impressed until Rowle grabs his ear and at risk of having it removed from his head, tears his attention away from Harry to roll towards the yanking arm. It's a dirty trick but the D.E. were never taught to play by the rules. When Tom's been pulled off Rowle, the latter takes the chance to switch their positions. The Sentinel uses the opportunity to start raining down punches. Amidst the stinging cracks of fists colliding with flesh and bone, Tom wonders why Rowle hasn't made a move to pull the blade from his belt. Or the semi-automatic from his coat pocket.

Voldemort must have put out an order to 'retrieve not kill'. Which in many ways is worse for him and Harry. But at the same time works to their advantage; As Tom's received no such order.

An enraged cry comes from the door, distinctly not Harry's in tone.

Dolohov's still staggering and looking alarmed that a Guide actually managed to get one over on him. This means he isn't prepared for when Harry throws his body weight against him and sends him crashing into the nearest shelf of confectionery.

Once Dolohov's out of the way, Harry sprints toward Rowle and Tom. He throws his arm round Rowle's neck and yanks with all his strength. It isn't as effective as one would hope but it distracts the Sentinel enough to let Tom handle the rest.

Tom manages to slide out from under Rowle before the man throws Harry off him with enough force to make him go crashing into a shelf of cleaning products. They scatter across the floor and make a pile around and on top of Harry's body. Tom's muscles strain to go to him, his mind screaming _**mate - hurt - protect**_ , but his instincts also tell him to focus on only one thing — _**Eliminate the threat**_.

With a growl, Tom charges at Rowle and they find themselves engaged in a quick and messy brawl. His bruised face smashes against a nearby refrigerator door while his hand is twisted behind his back. Tom's never found himself to be a chap for fist fights and always prefers the quick and deadly hits if he can't get his hands on a gun. Then again he's not exactly on top of his game at the moment, and his face is not the only thing that's bruised. Something bleeds inside him. He's wounded and it makes him slow. Easily distracted.

The sound of a familiar gasp catches Tom's attention and he looks up to find Dolohov on Harry, his thick hands wrapping around a pale, thin throat. Chokes and gasps escape Harry's blue lips. Limbs flail and scrabble as he fights back against his assailant with admirable ferocity. Dolohov smiles grimly before leaning in to say something in Harry's ear. Unfortunately for Dolohov, the words don't go unheard by Tom's Sentinel hearing. There's no subtlety when the large hand runs down Harry's side either.

With jarring force, Rowle goes flying off Tom to sprawl on the floor where he receives a blow to the side of the head and a busted kneecap. Dolohov is next to face Tom's wrath as he's ripped off Harry and made to endure the flurry of fists that rain down on his face and chest, breaking a few ribs in the process. A nearby shelf is the next thing to land on him before Tom looks to Harry. His chest heaves, face furious and terrifying. Enormous green eyes stare back. They hold no accusation this time around. No hurt or fear. Only relief and an unconditional trust.

"We need to get out of here," Tom yells and Harry scrambles up to join him in running out to the car.

* * *

Tom can hear them start to gather themselves back up in the store. The scrape of the shelf being removed and the sound of broken glass under heavy footfalls. An alarmed voice — certainly a brave shopkeeper to hang around for all of that — tells them to stop where they are because _I've called the police_ and _I'm warning you, they'll be here any minute_. The tires of the little blue Toyota squeal as Tom pulls out onto the road again. Another set of wheels can be heard a minute later. A cherry red Honda Civic appears in the rear view mirror, hot on their heels.

"Oh, God," Harry groans helplessly. He's looking in the side view mirror and Tom spots a familiar item emerge from the passenger side window quickly followed by the arm wielding it. Rowle's head is the last to appear as he positions himself to take aim.

"Get down!" Tom orders just as the back window glass explodes.

"Shit!" Harry cries in surprise.

"Take the wheel."

"What, why?! What are you doing?"

Harry reaches over to grab the abandoned steering wheel and maneuvers into the driver's seat while Tom hops into the back. Tom forgoes answering to rifle through a duffel bag he brought along. A few more shots are fired on the car and Harry swerves as best he can to avoid the worst of the impact. He casts an anxious glance in the rear view mirror to see Tom withdraw a rifle from the bottom of the bag. Green eyes widen in alarm.

"Are you shitting me?!"

"Just keep your head down," Tom replies.

" _How_? I'm the one driving, remember?"

Tom rolls down the window and leans out to aim the rifle at the car tailing them.

There's a deafening _crackcrackcrack_ as Tom fires through a slew of returning shots. Glass shatters and metal crunches from bullets connecting with the car. Harry's so overwhelmed by all of it he only notices his headrest is torn until the fluffy white stuffing is gently brushing his cheek. He also becomes aware of something distinctly wet at his side.

Only when Harry glances down does he realize in a detached way that he's been hit. Harry supposes he should find the thought more alarming. Getting shot should feel more significant somehow, but all he can do is drive.

_I have to keep driving._

There's no time to think about anything else. It'll be fine. He's starting to lose strength in his arms but _it's going to be fine_. From another universe, Harry sees the road start to slide and slip away. All that exists in it's place is tingling warmth and blurred colour. He's vaguely aware Tom's saying something to him but he can't hear it. He's too deep underwater to hear anything except a word that sounds like his name.

"Harry!"

Hands clutch his head and turn him to face eyes the colour of rich earth. He sees words form on Tom's lips.

"Take your foot off the gas, you fucking idiot!"

Harry manages to pull his foot off the pedal with great effort. Then Tom's broad shoulders take up his view as he grabs the wheel from the passenger side and pulls them to a stop by the side of the road.

The invasive _bing bing bing_ of the car alert comes on when Tom leaves the door open to march round to Harry's side. He flings open the driver's side door and unbuckles the seat belt to peel off the shirt clinging to Harry's wound. Tom stiffens when Harry hisses. Dark eyes flicker up to Harry's from their examination of the bullet hole. There's an accusation in the inky depths but Tom says nothing as he retrieves a first-aid kit from the duffel bag in the back. His movements are calm and controlled as he goes about patching Harry up.

But even from underwater, Harry can still feel the tight strain which thrums under a layer of fierce protectiveness from the Alpha Sentinel.

They both know Harry needs a lot more than a bandage to survive this.

Harry licks at his suddenly dry lips. It takes a considerable amount of effort to say, "I know a place. Nearby. You can take me there — They'll know what to do."

Tom fixes Harry with a hard stare. "Your friends."

Harry nods. "His parents, rather. Ottery St Mary. Shouldn't be too far from here."

"They'll contact the Order — "

Harry shakes his head and winces. "No. _No_. They're not with the Order. We can trust them."

Tom's lips press into a grim line and his eyes slide down to the blood already soaking through the newly applied bandage. He's dealt with many nicks and cuts in the past, but this... This is beyond even his capability to fix.


	14. Dislodged Bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you who left comments in the last chapter are so unfairly sweet and amazing. I read and appreciate each one so much. *Big hug*.  
> Also, I have no recollection why I decided to give Ginny the skills she possesses in this chapter, but alas. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Could have easily been Hermione but I thought I'd spice things up a bit. Sorry if it seems OOC.

It's around the time Molly's putting plates on the table that the smell starts to register. Ron's the first to realize it as the unmistakable scent of blood. His eyes instantly snap to the bushy head of hair on the other side of the room. Hermione sits on the couch bouncing a little girl of one and a half on her knee. The chestnut skin of Ginny's daughter is turned russet brown with her excitement and Ellie lets out a shriek of delight to prove it. But when the upset in Ron's mood reaches Hermione, the Guide stops and swivels her head. Her eyes lock with Ron's across the room and without exchanging a word Hermione gets up to go put Ellie down for bed. Ginny's taking a quick shower and should be out in a minute.

Ron's hovering near the door when Hermione comes back down. He paces with his right arm flexing and stretching every now and then. The cast came off a few days ago but it still needs time to heal.

"You feel anything off or is it just me?" Ron asks.

Hermione takes a second to focus on anything unusual but stops when there's nothing to be felt. "No," she says with a frown. "Are you sure you're not just being, you know... Paranoid? It's been weeks, Ron. Nothing has happened so far."

"Exactly. It's too quiet and too good to be true," Ron answers and peeks through the curtain beside the door.

"The order said we'd be safe here," Hermione insists but Ron flaps a hand at her to be quiet. She slaps it away with an indignant huff.

Ron says, "There's a car."

The words bring them both to immediate attention. They glance back to where Molly's still fussing over pots and pans in the kitchen.

"Is your father home yet?" Molly calls. "This sauce won't stay hot for long. I told him to come home early today..." She continues to tut and mutter to herself followed by more clatters of plates and cutlery.

"Mum," Ron complains. "Could you keep it down? I'm trying to hear something!"

"Why? What's the matter?" she asks, looking up and wiping her hands on a tea towel.

Hermione folds her arms across her chest. "Ron thinks he smells something," she answers.

"I don't _think_ I smell it. It's definitely..." Ron's mouth twists, his face paling to even mentioning the word.

"Well, I'm sure Ginny would have smelled it too," Molly soothes.

"Smelled what?"

Ginny comes padding into the kitchen in bare feet and a fresh set of clothes. Her hair hangs in wet tendrils round her shoulders.

"Blood," Hermione says and rolls her eyes at Ron's squeamishness.

Ginny frowns and finishes her perusal of the food on the table before she plucks up a baby carrot and crunches into it. "That's odd," she says. "Mum did you –?"

"Haven't cut my finger in a week," Molly answers proudly.

"Now there's a record."

Molly smacks her with the tea towel in admonishment. "Cheeky girl."

Ginny grins then becomes still as a deeper frown slowly creases her brow. "Hang on," she says with a suddenly sober tone. "I can smell it too now. It's getting stronger."

As if a switch has been flipped, the room plunges into an uneasy silence. There's nothing but the sound of a pot bubbling on the stove in the kitchen and the creak and groans of the house. Minutes pass until a low rumble of an engine cuts through the night air and headlights flash through the front windows as a car pulls into the drive.

As if a spell has been broken Ginny turns intense brown eyes on Hermione. "Where's Ellie?" she says.

"I put her to bed," Hermione replies.

Ginny turns and runs upstairs to keep an eye on her one-year-old while leaving the rest to linger in the hall with growing anxiety.

"Maybe it's Arthur?" Molly suggests but Ron shakes his head the same time as Hermione does.

"No," Hermione says gravely. A worried frown puckers her brow and her voice starts to shake a little. "No, it's definitely not Arthur. Ron, I think we should –"

Ron gives an affirmative nod though his eyes are wide with fear. He quickly marches into the living room and retrieves the old shotgun above the fireplace. It's been in their family for years but never been used, until now.

Molly gapes at the sight of her son with it when he joins them in the hall.

"Ronald Weasley, you put your great grandfather's gun down now! You know that's only to be used in emergencies."

"Mum," Ron whines. " _This is an emergency_."

With one look at Hermione – always the sensible one in her son's trio of friends – Molly seems to finally accept the gravity of their situation. She even goes along when Ron instructs Hermione to take her upstairs and let Ginny know what's happening.

Once alone in the hall, Ron waits with a shaky grip on his gun. A bead of perspiration trickles down his temple as he listens to a car door slam and the sound of heavy footsteps travel up to the front door. There's a small pause before a loud knock rattles the door frame and Ron jumps. Shifting his hold on the shotgun, he aims it at the door and yells, "Who is it!"

The muffled sound of a sigh answers from the other side of the door before an unfamiliar but unforgettable voice speaks.

"I suggest you open the door or your friend will die very quickly."

* * *

 

The door flings open to greet Tom with the end of a shotgun barrel. A second later the bundle in Tom's arms is noted and realization dawns on a freckled face. Harry smiles weakly, his face a ghostly shade of white. "Hey," he croaks.

Although the gun remains aimed at Tom, the redhead's shoulders relax at seeing his best friend. "Christ, Harry, what's happened to you?" Ron asks.

Though strained, Harry's tone is light when he answers. "Got shot at, that's what."

"Who?"

"The D.E."

"They found you?"

"Yeah, on the road."

Ron shifts with unease. "Did they follow you?"

"No," Tom answers for Harry and the way he says it makes it clear there's to be no more discussion about it. In answer, the growing throb of anxiety ebbing through the thread connecting Tom to Harry dies down a bit. "Now, if you'll kindly lower the gun or would you like me to drop him?"

Ron's mouth screws up in clear reluctance but he eventually nods and allows Tom to pass through into the house. "There – Put him on the couch," Ron says.

Tom's just placed Harry carefully on the lumpy sofa when a voice shrieks.

" _Oh, my God_! Harry!"

Hermione comes rushing in from the staircase and stops short when she sees Tom. Uncertainty flickers across her features. In a quivering voice, she says, "Ron?"

"It's fine, 'Mione," Harry answers weakly from the couch. "Please, Ron. Don't hurt him."

Ron's eyes bulge. "Hurt _**him**_? Blimey, Harry, he nearly _**killed**_ us! And look what's happened to you! The guy's a bloody psychopath. What's he done – Drugged you? Tortured you or something?"

Harry laughs faintly but answers in the negative. When there's no further explanation, the restlessness crawling over Tom's skin cracks.

"He needs medical attention," Tom urges.

Ron turns to look at Tom like he's grown another head. Hermione says, "I'll get Ginny." And quickly rushes from the room.

The two Sentinels stare at one another as the thumps of a set of feet ascend the stairs. They listen to the quick conversation informing Molly and Ginny what's going on, and the instruction for Molly to take watch over Ellie before two sets of feet descend the stairs.

A moment later Hermione reappears with Ginny in tow, the redheaded woman vibrating with a feral protectiveness and tension. Tom's nostrils flare.

Another Sentinel.

The movement of his hand tightening on the trigger has Tom's gaze snapping to Ron. He's changed since their last meeting. Whether Ron will pull the trigger or not causes Tom to doubt. A definite improvement to his credibility.

Hermione leads Ginny round the couch to look at Harry and the youngest Weasley smiles through a wince.

"Hey, Ginny," Harry says. He sounds sleepy.

"Hi, dumbarse. Heard you've been on quite the adventure," she says. Then to Hermione, "I need bandages from the kitchen drawer, a pair of scissors, needle and thread, a basin of clean water, and some antiseptic."

Hermione rushes to go about collecting the materials and after rummaging around for a minute or two Ginny has everything she needs to get to work. She prepares the area by cleaning it with water but at the first touch of the alcohol Harry stiffens. A whimper escapes his lips and Tom jerks violently in Ginny's direction before he's roughly yanked back by a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't bloody move!" Ron shouts and shoves the gun at Tom's head.

The muscles in Tom's neck strain as he forces himself to stand still. The urge to rip out throats and cut off fingers has never been this strong.

Tension builds thick and heavy in the room. There's too many Sentinels. Harry is hurt. Too many smells and threats. Harry is _hurt_ and panting in pain. There are too many _hands touching his mate_.

"Ron," Hermione says gently.

Ron turns to see her grimacing. His instincts are immediately on alert and tuned in with her. "What's the matter? What's wrong?" he says.

"I think you should leave."

"Are you mental?! I'm not leaving you with him!"

Hermione closes her eyes and places a hand to her head as if pained. "I'll go with you, alright!" she amends. "But if he wanted to kill Harry he wouldn't have brought him here in the first place. Now _please_ , Ron, we have to go!"  
  
"She's right, Ron," Ginny cuts in. She's stopped moving and is perfectly still over Harry.

Ron presses his lips into a stubborn line. But when he looks round the room he seems to come to a decision. The gun lowers and he tells Tom, "If you so much as touch a hair on my sister's head I'll fucking kill you."

The other man doesn't so much as blink in his direction as Ron leaves with Hermione. Tom's eyes remain pinned to the damp black hair and the slick pale skin.

When Hermione and Ron are far enough away, Ginny's eyes flicker up to meet Tom's. She waits with the needle and thread in her hand. No words are spoken but Tom can understand the silent request. With tremendous effort the Alpha Sentinel forces his shoulders to relax and after a while Ginny resumes her medical aid. Tom's gaze never wavers from the hands working on Harry.

By the time Ginny's finished stitching up the wound Harry's fallen into a deep sleep. She stands, wiping her hands on a bloody rag and Tom's eyes fix themselves on the cloth like it belongs to him.

"You want some help with that?" Ginny says, and jerks her head in the direction of Tom's face. Tom blinks and slowly reaches up to touch his cheek. He isn't surprised when his fingertips come away with dried blood. Mostly his own for once.

Tom shakes his head; Ginny shrugs and continues. "I'm positive he'll be out for the rest of the night. We'll let you stay if you can somehow manage not to hurt any of us."

At these words she dons a full on death glare that brooks no argument. Tom would be intimidated if he isn't certain he can snap her neck in the second it took her to draw her next breath. He watches her travel past him into the kitchen.

"We won't be staying long," Tom says.

Ginny falters. "Look, Harry can't travel anywhere for the next few days," she says. "So whatever you think you're planning to do it'll have to wait until then."

Tom can't help but feel a small amount of wonder as the meaning of her words sink in. "You want him to stay with me."

Ginny heaves a sigh and throws the dirty rag into the sink with a wet flop. She braces her arms on the sides with her back to Tom and says, "You hurt my brother pretty badly and I won't forget that. I don't know what you want with Harry or if any of us can even trust a word you say. But what I do know is you're somehow capable of keeping this git from dying. Barely. And I trust that."

There's a breath of silence that carries with it a strange air of respect and mutual understanding.

In the next moment it's interrupted when Molly comes in with a stack of clothing, blankets, and toiletries in her arms. She pauses to stare at Tom like he's an odd species of animal in her living room before she warily places the pile on the table next to the couch where Harry's sleeping.

A fretful sound escapes Molly's mouth when she looks at Harry, her face melting into a look of deep concern. She fusses about him for a minute, piling on blankets and setting down a glass of water next to him along with a plate of food. Tom watches her through all of it until she finally looks up at him. Distrust vibrates off her in waves.

"There should be something that fits you in here as well. And Bill's bedroom is free if you need to..." She trails off at Tom's continued silence.

After a cursory examination of the possible level of threat she poses, Tom answers her with a level "Thank you for your hospitality".

Molly gives a tight-lipped nod and bustles from the room. Ginny follows a moment later, casting one last threatening glance over her shoulder at Tom.

The lights flick off in the kitchen leaving the old battered lamp in the living room as the last source of illumination. Only until the house becomes devoid of human sound and motion does Tom dare to move. He slinks silently into the kitchen where abandoned food sits on the table, cold and mostly uneaten. He helps himself to a few bites before washing his face in the sink. Blood, inky black in the half-light, swirls down the drain. A mixture of his and that of Rowle and Dolohov. The crimson on his hands belongs to Harry. He stares for a long time before it too is scrubbed away.

A quick search of the cabinets produce a half empty bottle of whiskey which accompanies Tom back into the living room. He never likes to drink if he can help it. Not good for business. Makes him too fuzzy, less in control. But tonight proves itself as one of those occasions where alcohol becomes a necessity more than anything else. So he pours himself a glass swiftly followed by another. One more after that and eventually the neck of the bottle's no longer in danger of breaking under his fierce grip. He dozes on the armchair facing the sofa and listens to the slow thud of Harry's heartbeat. A tune now as familiar as his own. Without thinking he searches for Harry's scent as well and holds onto it, lets it wrap itself around him.

He can live without it. He's been living without it for quite some time before now.

Only now that he has it Tom can't imagine ever losing it. He thinks he might destroy the world before he feels that tiny sliver of Harry disappear from his mind. That fumbling mess of emotion and contradictions which make up the Omega Guide. That passion, damnable naivety, scruffy hair and unnecessary kindness. That blind, stupid bravery.

Tom watches the shallow rise and fall of Harry's chest through heavy lidded eyes. Harry's glasses lay on the coffee table next to the pile of clothes. There's a smear of blood on the left lens. Tom's eyes drift shut and the memory of green eyes in a pale, wan face follows him into darkness.

* * *

 

The front door creaks open to admit the slouched figure of a tired man. He absently locks the door behind him before shuffling into the kitchen and inhales the lingering scent Molly's dinner. Ham, peas, potatoes and gravy. His favourite. Arthur Weasley exhales a weary but happy sigh and finishes off the plate his wife left him under a sheet of tin foil on the counter.

Content with a bit of food in his belly, Arthur decides it's time for bed. He ambles into the living room to turn off the light someone left on but gets a fright at the sight of a man sitting – apparently sleeping – in his favourite armchair. Arthur squints in confusion at the stranger but finds another guest lying prone on his couch. His tired eyes widen in surprise.

_Harry!_

Arthur can't help but release a muffled cry of relief. A grin stretches his face as he darts over to make sure it really is the very same Harry Potter the world's been looking for. The pallor of the young man's face and the bandaging round his middle are a cause for worry. But by the soft breaths escaping his dry lips, Harry is still alive. Arthur's grin gentles into something fond as he pulls the comforter snugly over Harry's shoulders. Arthur then pauses to regard the young man for a moment. To gaze at the face he and his family feared they may never see again.

Once satisfied Harry's truly alive and sleeping on his couch, Arthur turns and almost jumps out of his skin. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" he gasps and clutches at his chest.

From the armchair a tight, gaunt face silently pins Arthur with a heavy gaze.

Arthur lets out a nervous chuckle. "Oh I'm terribly sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you..." He's panting slightly from residual shock but tries to calm himself before speaking again.

Tom's gaze doesn't waver. "Arthur Weasley," he says.  
  
"Er – yes," Arthur replies with a small frown. "Sorry, who are you? I don't think we've met but I'm sure we have you to thank for bringing our Harry back to us." He smiles uncertainly.

Tom pulls up the corners of his mouth to put the other man at ease. "Tom Riddle. We haven't met but Harry's told me all about you."

If the man felt uneasy about Tom before it quickly vanishes at these words. "A friend of Harry's, eh?" he says.  
  
A real twitch tugs at Tom's mouth. "One can call it that."

"Well, it's good to see him in one piece. Can't imagine what he must've gone through to get here," Arthur says thickly. He blinks rapidly and looks to the side.

Tom says nothing. He's never known how to respond in the face of emotion, blatant or otherwise. Anything false from him now would be noticed.

Arthur starts to shift and runs his hands over the knees of his trousers. "Well, I suppose I'd better let you get some rest. I'm sure Molly's told you there's a spare room upstairs if you need it?"  
  
"I'm quite comfortable here," Tom replies in a stilted manner. "Thank you. Arthur."

At that moment a soft whine comes from the couch along with a whispered, " _Tom_."

The next instant has Tom kneeling beside the couch, leaning over Harry as he grips a pale wrist in his hand. Meanwhile his other hand slips into the damp dark locks of Harry's head.  
  
Within seconds the crease on Harry's brow is smoothed away. A breath of relief escapes his lips and the feeling runs liquid and warm through to Tom's mind. Absentmindedly, Tom's thumb begins to stroke the patch of skin at Harry's temple. His eyes map the faint blue veins on Harry's eyelid to the thick fan of lashes resting against a pale cheek. Tom's so absorbed in the other man he almost forgets where he is. A chance look up at Arthur reveals him to be staring with a slightly awed look of wonder on his face.

"You're his…?" Arthur asks. He doesn't dare to say the word aloud.

_Bondmate._

It hangs in the air, louder than if it had been spoken. Tom can't hide the bitterness in his tone when he replies.

"No. I'm not."  
  
Arthur coughs and looks terribly embarrassed but eventually hurries from the room with an apology and a quick parting wish of "Goodnight".

* * *

 

Furious whispers wake Tom the next morning. They come from the kitchen, clearly trying to decide what to do about their unwanted house guest. The clatter of plates and cutlery intersperse the conversation along with the babble of a small child.  
  
Tom doesn't lift his head from where it lays comfortably against Harry's leg. The fingers of Harry's hand are still entwined with Tom's on the cushion.  
  
"Christ, he's got that whatchamacallit – That Swedish disorder –?"  
  
"Stockholm Syndrome, Ron," Hermione answers in an exasperated tone. "And _no_ , I don't think Harry's formed a bond with his kidnapper. You're just being ludicrous!"  
  
"Um, sorry but did we see the same thing this morning? What the hell d'you call that in the living room just now! He's gone and brainwashed him, I know it."  
  
"But what about _the Order_ –?" Someone says.  
  
Tom's heart thuds loudly in his chest. He wrenches himself into a standing position, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head.  
  
"Has anyone even rang them?" Ginny says.  
  
A chilling silence passes interrupted by a whispered curse. The rattle of a spoon dropping follows, earning a tiny gurgling laugh.  
  
"Bloody hell. So not only has no one thought to tell Dumbledore that Harry's alive and in our living room, but hey there's also a hired killer here too _just by the way_."  
  
"Well, there was so much fuss last night. I hardly think it was the first thing on anyone's mind," Molly puts in in a harassed tone.  
  
Tom stalks into the room at this moment and six pairs of eyes turn to look at him.  
  
They've all seemed to gather round one end of the table for breakfast. Sunlight pours through the windows and Tom squints against the brightness. He suddenly regrets having that drink last night. He needs keep on top form. Aware and prepared for almost anything.  
  
"If you contact the Order," Tom says in a quiet but deadly tone. "You might as well hand over Harry to Voldemort yourselves."  
  
Ron's chair scrapes back as he stands to face Tom. Every line of his body screams confrontation. "Oi, you don't get to decide anything here," he says. "You kidnapped Harry and almost killed him!"  
  
The baby on Ginny's lap jerks back at the loud noise and her face crumples.  
  
"There'll be no 'almost' for you if Dumbledore finds out where he is," Tom shoots back.  
  
A steady wail erupts from the baby's mouth and the skin around Tom's eyes tighten. He sends a glare to the offending child and Ginny's hackles raise. Ron's hand moves toward the gun resting against the leg of the table and Hermione jumps up from her chair. "Ron, no!" she cries.  
  
Tom debates the pros of pulling out his own sidearm.  
  
"All right, everyone settle down!" Molly yells.  
  
Surprisingly the room goes quiet, more startled at the unexpected noise than anything. The baby hiccups and sniffs but seems to be settling down with Ginny trying her best to soothe it.  
  
"She's right, you know," Hermione says, and casts a worried look round the table. "We can't help Harry if we're all just going to be at each other's throats."  
  
"I'll be at someone's throat alright," Ron grumbles and winces at a well-aimed jab from Hermione's elbow under the table.  
  
"I'm serious. I think we should wait until Harry's up so we can ask him about all of it."  
  
"You don't seem to understand," Tom tries with forced patience. Meanwhile anger and frustration simmer just below the surface. "If you've called the Order – or are with them – your precious Harry will shortly be dead. Of that I can guarantee."  
  
His words send a dark shadow across the room, casting everyone in a sober mood.  
  
"Yeah, and why should we trust _you_ then?" Ron challenges. "As far as we know you're as barmy as Voldemort."  
  
Tom's eyes snap to Ron and level him with his most acidic look. "I'm nothing like him," he growls.  
  
Ron fires back a glare while the room falls into a meditative silence.  
  
Arthur sits at one end of the table nursing a cup of tea with an expression like he's heard some shattering news. Most likely still stewing over the fact he's had a hit man in his house – and shared a conversation with him no less – without knowing it. Molly affects a stubborn countenance. Appearing as though she'd be willing to go one round with Tom herself if he so much as touched any of her family. Hermione chews on her lip like she's trying to solve a particularly difficult exam problem. Meanwhile Ron's made sure his thoughts on Tom are clear from the start, and his sister looks to be doggedly ignoring the whole situation. The baby on her lap grins toothlessly at Tom, big brown eyes still sparkling with tears. The ochre coloured curls on her head bounce as she avoids her mother's attempts to try and feed her. All her attention seems focused on staring at the new stranger in the house.

A sharp intake of breath comes from the other room. With a jolt, Tom jerks into action and races toward the living room with Ron hot on his heels. When they come in, it's to find Harry's trying to sit up from the couch. Tom comes round and gently pushes him back down again. When he does, Tom catches sight of the bruising round Harry's neck and he stiffens.

Emerald eyes crack open and squint at Tom.  
  
"Tom?" Harry rasps.

The man in question can only squeeze Harry's hand in answer before the rest of the family file into the living room. Somehow Tom is jostled out of the way leaving Molly to start fussing. She tucks Harry in tighter, asking all sorts of questions and jabbering away as she urges him take a sip from the glass of water she brought him. Harry croaks a thank you and she cries out, "Oh, you poor dear, I'll get you some tea alright? Just you sit tight." Before she vanishes to go put the kettle on.

Hermione's next in line with some painkillers. After they're promptly administered with the glass of water, Ron shows his face and they all smile and talk together.

"You look a sight, mate," Ron says and Harry laughs which causes him to wince. Tom's nails bluntly tear at the fabric of the armchair he stands behind.

Toward the end of all the sentimental chat and catching up, Harry's finally handed his glasses. Once he can properly see, his eyes drift to Tom like a magnet. A tiny frown creases his brow.

Could it be concern? Fear?

Tom's good at reading people. Can tell within a minute of meeting someone what it is they want. He used to be able to read Harry too.

But Harry isn't a stranger anymore.

The inscrutable gaze is torn away when Arthur distracts Harry with a fatherly squeeze on the shoulder and a "Glad you're all right, Harry". Then Ginny sidles up with her daughter who immediately goes to snatch at his glasses. They laugh and Harry asks after a 'Dean' – "Painting commissions in France" – when the parade of people finally comes to an end. A few of them hover in the living room but eventually leave at Hermione's insistence that "Harry needs to _rest_."

And only then do the viridian eyes travel back to Tom.

Harry softly calls to him at his vigil behind the armchair. When Tom's close enough, the Guide's hand reaches out, shaking slightly. Fingertips brush Tom's cheek and he can't help but lean into the warm palm. Harry's shoulders sag and something in Tom soothes at the gentle touch. He closes his eyes.

 _Christ, what's happening to them?_  
  
"You look just about the way I feel," Harry says in a voice meant only for Tom's ears.

He's referring to the bruises but they can't be the only thing that gives the Sentinel away.

"You don't look any better either," Tom murmurs. This earns him a huff.  
  
"Can't argue with that."

Harry shifts to make himself more comfortable and hisses. Tom's lips press into a thin line and his hand clamps down on Harry's on the sofa. Something twists uncomfortably in his gut.

"That's the last time you're driving a car," Tom says.

Harry's mouth twitches faintly. "I don't believe it. Big Bad Tom just made a joke? I must be dead," he says. "Dead or mad."

"It may come as a shock but I'm really only human."

"I know."

The way Harry says it makes Tom feel as though there's a world of reassurance in his words. A profound belief that Harry's only now coming to understand. He adds, "I can... I feel you... now."

Tom's heart surges. He should feel triumph. Power.

This should scare him.

Harry's acknowledged the connection. That thread… Dare he say it?

 _The bond_.

It should terrify Harry and bolster Tom. But Tom doesn't feel anything besides an intangible sense of _rightness_. Like he's finally found home.

There's a moment of silence where they simply bask in the ease and comfort that comes with being in each other's presence. The calm which comes after running from bullets and bloodshed for too long.

_Speaking of which._

Harry quietly asks, "The two?"

He means Rowle and Dolohov.

"It's been taken care of," Tom replies. He watches Harry carefully but the latter only averts his gaze and nods.

At last. Acceptance.

Harry's finally coming to terms with the idea that sometimes you need to kill in order to protect. Tom looks down at his hand covering Harry's on the sofa. He didn't even realized it was there until now. He doubts Harry did either. Neither one feels inclined to point it out or change it now. They deserve this much. After everything they've been through, they deserve this small peace.

Just as Harry looks like he's about to doze off again, Tom says, "There's something you should know about your friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I'm off to throw myself into preparing for a presentation on the 4th. And then, you know… Six other assignments after that. Yikes! Wish me luck. Xx If I'm AWOL for too long just know that it's not by choice – I try to work on this every spare moment that I have.


	15. Samba de Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy ~~all~~ most assignments done, two more weeks to go, exams, then wham. My services are all yours.

"You worked for _the Order_?"

The words can't help but come out sounding like betrayal.

Harry's sitting up at the kitchen table with what looks to be tremendous effort, having curtly dismissed any offers of help or protests against the idea. This is a discussion he needs to have.

Molly sits opposite Harry while his two friends seat themselves on either side of him. They look back and forth between he and Molly like Harry's a child complaining to his mother about having broccoli for dinner. Tom's disappeared though Harry can still feel him through their bond, hovering somewhere on the premises.

"We thought you knew, dear," Molly tries to cajole. "Did Ron never tell you? I could have sworn – "

"Did you contact them?" Harry cuts through.

Molly's expression turns sheepish and a knot forms in Harry's stomach. She quickly explains, "Oh no! No, see – Arthur and I worked for them a couple of years ago for a brief while. But then Bill came along, and then Charlie, Percy, Fred and George soon followed..."

Harry nods, eager to skip the list of children. "Right," he says, chewing this bit of information over. "Okay. But you're not still working with them are you?"

"Well, no. I stayed home with the kids while Arthur took a job in the Ministry. Being an Order member is full time work, you see. It's all very well and good spending your time catching wanted criminals but someone has to make sure chaos doesn't erupt at home!"

Harry's hand comes up to rub the bridge of his nose under his glasses. Despite being under heavy painkillers, the gunshot wound on his side throbs dully.

"The Order, the Ministry, the police – None of them can know I'm here," Harry pleads, looking into his friends' faces as well. He tries to convey earnestness and get them to understand. "Tom's right when he says Voldemort will find me again and I don't want any more people killed because of me."

Hermione shares a look with Ron before glancing at Mrs Weasley. With great reluctance she seems to come to a decision.

"Alright, Harry," she says. Her hand comes to rest on Harry's on the table.

"Hermione – " Ron starts to protest.

"He's right, Ron. He won't be safe with them. Or us, for that matter. If… If Tom was able to find Harry so quickly then it stands to reason that Voldemort has someone else who can do it just as well."

"I don't like it," Ron says. He shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest.

A fond smile tugs at Harry's mouth. "If you liked the idea I'd be worried, mate," he says. "But I'm not. I'm just asking you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

Ron finally looks over at him, expression full of disbelief. "No offense but you're the last person to ever know what they're doing. Except for me, that is."

Harry smiles. "Not arguing with you on that one."

Ron sighs and unfolds his arms. "Well, I hope your Lord of Darkness knows what he's doing. I'll kill him if he doesn't."

Harry's smile morphs into a grin before he turns to Molly. She's wringing her hands and looking down at them in thought. The lines on her brow are deepened with her concern. A few moments pass until she blows out a blustery breath.

"Oh, alright. I suppose I can't stop you," Molly says unhappily. She gives Harry a stern look. "But you _have_ to promise me that you'll take care and look after yourself. I don't trust that man for one minute. He's too dangerous."

"Deal," Harry says. Molly makes a pained noise before coming round to bury him in a hug.

A breeze flows through the house, bringing with it the sound of heavy footsteps. Everyone looks up when Tom stalks into the room looking like a wild man. There's smudges of dirt on his cheek, hands, and clothes. He shoots Ron a glare as though his mere presence were an offense to him.

"And where'd you go off to?" Ron demands.

"Got rid of the car."

"Got rid – ?" Ron gapes. "Now _where'd_ you – _How_ _did you_ – ?"

Tom doesn't answer. He marches over to where Harry sits at the table. There's a small furrow between his brows that Harry pins as Tom's concern showing through. He must feel the bone deep weariness Harry does at that moment. Strong arms wrap around Harry's shoulders and help him up from the chair. From the surprising – and worrying – lack of protest in return, Tom must figure it's bad. As he helps Harry through to the living room, a chance look up shows Hermione staring at them with an odd expression. When she catches his gaze she hurriedly looks away and pretends to be busy with collecting blankets and pillows. Tom does his best to ignore her and the others as he passes by with Harry into the living room.

Having his weakness around Harry witnessed makes Tom more uncomfortable than he thought.

* * *

Harry's laid out on the couch among the piles of blankets, resting. Tom's disappeared again by the time Ginny comes in to check on Harry's wound. She folds back his shirt and bandages to assess the damage.

"How much longer do I have, doctor?" Harry murmurs.

Ginny rolls her eyes and gets out a small tube of antibacterial cream. "Always such a drama queen," she says through a smile. "Between you and Ron, I don't know who gets into the worst scrapes. But trust me when I say I've seen worse. You won't believe how many drunks land in the E.R. on Saturdays, and from putting themselves in the weirdest situations... God, it's a complete nightmare."

Harry grins. "I believe you."

She applies the cool paste to his wound, causing goose bumps to raise on his skin. A new bandage and dressing is placed on top of the paste before she gets up again. She stands still for a moment, head cocked slightly to the side.

"Ellie awake?" Harry guesses. Ginny nods and ruffles his hair before gathering up the cream and bandages to go upstairs again. "Don't move, alright? If I have to stitch you back up again because you've been doing cartwheels or some other stupid thing, I'll smack you."

Her feet thud up the stairs and Harry finds himself alone in the living room. He rests his head against the arm of the sofa a sighs.

"I think I like her."

Harry startles when he hears Tom's voice and turns to see the man walking in from the direction of the stairs. He looks freshly showered and dressed in what must be Bill's old clothes. Harry has to admit it looks strange seeing the hit man in a powder blue polo and faded jeans with holes in the knees. Strange… but alluring somehow.

Harry can't help but smile. "I don't blame you," he says. "Ginny's a Sentinel but she has that effect on people."

There's the soft pad of feet and Ginny returns with a discontent Ellie squirming in her arms. As soon as the child catches sight of Harry, her arms outstretch until they're wrapped around Harry's neck and she's sitting on his lap. Harry's grin turns fond, bottle green gaze softening.

The soothing Omega pheromones between Harry and the child permeate the air. The clear waves of love and care becoming a sweet, tangible essence. Tom can do nothing but watch and silently marvel at how natural and _right_ Harry looks in this moment.

Something tightens in Tom's chest.

Harry looks up at the slight shift in mood through the bond. The other man stares at him and for the first time in a long while Tom feels something only his targets do; A paralyzing emotion usually felt right before he finishes a job.

Tom swallows carefully and tears his eyes away from the sight. The small ache between his ribs grows to a hurt. He can never be the proper kind of Alpha for Harry. Their lives would never be normal or safe. Least of all for children, and Tom reluctantly admits to finding the thought appealing. Having a few of their own with Harry tucking them in at night and Tom there to protect them.

The sounds of the other Sentinel and his Guide reach Tom's ears. He moves to the corner of the room, bracing through the twinge when he lowers himself into the armchair. It's the only seat that faces the rest of the room, no windows or room behind it. A perfect vantage point.

The bushy-haired Guide and her Sentinel enter the living room, the latter munching loudly on a piece of toast.

"Hello, sweetheart," Hermione coos. From Harry's lap, Ellie looks up in mild curiosity.

Ron smirks when he sees Harry being used as a jungle gym for his niece. "Having fun there, mate?" he asks.

"The best kind," Harry says round a mouthful of tiny fingers. He grunts when Ellie starts to bounce up and down on his lap and tries to steady her from falling off.

"Right, come here you," Ginny says and reaches for Ellie. "No need to undo all my work before Harry does."

Harry's protest is hidden under Ellie's own as she's pried off of him. Once she's in Hermione's arms and calmed again, Harry turns to Ginny.

"Hey, uh – " Harry starts and chances a look at Tom who straightens under the attention. A faint pink colour rises on Harry's pale cheeks but he continues. "Do you think you could – er – check out his leg?"

There are a few raised brows and Ginny turns to look at Tom.

Tom's eyes flick to Harry before he gives a minuscule nod. She comes over and plonks down her first-aid kit next to the arm chair. Tom stares down at her auburn head as she rolls up his jeans to peel back the bandage on his leg.

"It's healing well. I don't think it needs anything more than rest and cream to help it along," she says. "Dare I ask how this happened?"

Harry coughs and mumbles something. Ginny's head whips round to stare at him before she and Ron both ask at the same time: " _What?_ "

Harry shifts uncomfortably under their incredulous looks. "I said I shot him."

Hermione gapes and Ron fails to hide a smug smile. Tom wants to wipe it from his face using the surgical scissors.

Ginny blows out a breath and repacks her kit as Ron laughs. "Good one, mate," he says.

A low warning growl erupts from Tom's throat and Harry cuts it off. "Come off it, Tom. You were being a dick," he says.

The noise stops but Harry refuses to meet the black look Tom sends in retribution.

* * *

It doesn't take long to notice. From the way he hovers, Harry realizes Tom refuses to be more than a few feet away from him. So he supposes it shouldn't be a surprise the others might notice too.

Harry's lying down again while Ron sits on the coffee table and hands him a mug of hot tea.

Ron glances over his shoulder and jerks his head. "What's with him anyway?"

Harry follows his line of sight and finds Tom sitting at the kitchen table, apparently engrossed in whatever he's looking at on the laptop.

"What?" Harry says. He inwardly winces when it comes out sounding more defensive than he intended.

Ron gives him a look. "Darth Vader over there's acting like your bloody guard dog is what." A frown creases his brow. In an uncertain tone, he continues. "Did he, y'know, bite…?"

Harry shifts uncomfortably. "No. Nothing like that."

Ron relaxes at the words but his frown deepens. "So why's he look like he's about drop into a swoon then?"

Harry's eyes flit to Tom again and he swallows. "Wouldn't you be worried if your car got stolen?"

Disapproval rolls off Ron when he replies. "You're more than that, mate," he says and reaches over to squeeze Harry's arm. "Don't forget us."

Harry smiles tiredly at him. "Never."

When Harry chances another glance into the kitchen, Tom's stopped typing. His dark gaze is now fixed firmly on Harry – No, on the freckled hand still clasped round his arm. Harry shudders at the familiar look in those eyes.

_Dangerous._

Harry slowly slips his arm out from under Ron's hand and claims tiredness.

From the other room the bond settles, becalmed.

* * *

With another cup of tea in hand, Harry goes to take a sip and wrinkles his nose. He frowns down at the cup and tugs the neck of his jumper over his nose and mouth. He sniffs and groans.

"I need a shower."

"Tell me about it," Ginny says and Harry shoots her a half-hearted glare. He places his cup down and starts to get up from the table when a frisson of static travels along his spine.

"I don't need your help, thanks very much," Harry says to the man standing behind him in the kitchen.

"You're not going in alone."

"I'm taking a shower, Tom, not going to war." Harry turns to walk up the stairs and feels a shadow behind him. "Go away!"

 _Thump, thump, thump_ of Harry's feet going up the stairs swiftly followed by another pair. There's a grumbled, "Oh, for fuck's sake." before they both disappear upstairs.

At the kitchen table, Ginny hides a smirk as she spoon feeds Ellie another mouthful of baby food.

* * *

When Harry gets to the bathroom, he turns to send Tom the most flat out look of refusal he can muster.

A muscle in Tom's jaw flexes. "Fine. I'll wait outside."

Harry grunts out a noise that might resemble gratitude before slamming the door closed. As soon as he's alone in the bathroom, he heaves a sigh and starts peeling away clothing. He only winces a little when he has to stretch to take off his shirt.

Harry carefully steps into the tiny bathtub and turns on the faucet. He closes his eyes in bliss when the first feel of hot water spurts and splutters against his scalp. It trickles warm and soothing down the back of his neck and Harry doesn't realize his shields have slipped until a muffled feeling of satisfaction echoes back to him through the door. Despite himself, a small smile tugs at the corner of Harry's mouth. He shakes his head to let the water soak through his thick head of hair before grabbing the soap. He lathers up a sizable amount of suds in his hands. Enough to wash away all the dried blood and dirt from his body. Maybe too much.

The bar slips through his fingers and a muttered curse flies from his mouth. The soap thuds loudly against the tub and without his glasses on it's difficult to see in the foggy shower as it is. Harry gets as far as bending down when he feels something under his foot.

Harry experiences a sickening moment of free fall until his spine hits the unforgiving acrylic tub with a jarring force. The curse on his lips is much louder this time. It's punctuated by the slamming of the bathroom door. Harry shuts his eyes tight. Fuck.

The shower curtain rips open to reveal the tall and imposing form of Tom. The Sentinel blanches at the sight of Harry sprawled naked in what Harry is certain is a rather inelegant display. More to the point, Harry's sure he's opened a few stitches with the impromptu acrobatics.

Harry keeps his eyes closed in pain and embarrassment. He hisses when familiar and strong, capable hands hoist him up from the elbow and under the armpit.

"You complete fucking idiot," Tom grumbles.

"Shut it," Harry pants. "Just give me a towel and get out, will you?"

The hands tighten around his elbow and the other comes up to cup his chin, forcing Harry to face Tom.

"Look at me," Tom orders.

Harry reluctantly opens his eyes. The expression which greets him is one that makes Harry swallow hard.

"I'm going to take care of you."

Harry's heart jumps into his throat. Seven simple words, and that's it. No questions, no arguments. Spoken like a fact that Harry has to come to accept.

Tom takes Harry's silence as acquiescence and goes to turn off the shower. When it shuts off, he turns on the tap to run a bath. Harry watches him, trying in vain to cover what he can of himself in the bathtub. Tom grabs a bottle of shampoo and squirts a dime-sized amount into his palm before kneeling down next to the tub and starting to massage the product into Harry's hair.

It's like being hit with a sedative. Harry's limbs go lax and loose in an instant. Something deep inside him opening up to revel in the small bit of intimate contact. Though these days it feels more and more like an ache. Harry's all too aware of what it means but can't look at it too closely. Not now. Not yet.

Harry doesn't realize his eyes are closed until he lets out a long sigh. When he does, he finds he's too relaxed to do anything about it anyway. He feels the hands in his hair pause for the briefest moment before working through his strands again. Slow and soothing. One hand drops the barest inch and massages the nape of his neck. Soapy fingers trail down his spine until Harry's back arches under the water. A soft, needy sound escapes his parted lips and his eyes fly open.

"You need me to touch you," Tom says in a voice that's almost a whisper. "You must feel it. The desire to bond."

"We're already bonded," Harry murmurs. His cheeks feel flush and it's not just the hot water.

"Not fully," Tom adds in a hush.

Harry has a hard time keeping in the embarrassing noises just imagining what he means. He can feel one of Tom's hands slide up the inside of his thigh and he gasps.

 _Oh God,_ he thinks. _Not yet._

In a clumsy movement Harry sits up in the bath, dislodging the hands from his skin and sloshing water over the side. The action also sends a searing jab through his stomach, turning the bathwater pink. The strong hand is replaced on his arm and a low rumble comes from Tom's throat. Harry bites the inside of his cheek and waits out the last ebbs of pain. In the meanwhile, a question forms on his tongue. One that's been burning for some time now.

"Why do you need to bond with me so badly?" Harry demands. As soon as he says it, he feels heat flood his face. Harry tries to direct his gaze anywhere else but at Tom.

"You're completely serious."

A subtle tone of incredulity paints Tom's voice. The black look Harry sends in response earns him a sigh before Tom explains.

"You're telling me you're unaware that when an Alpha and Omega bond they become stronger because of it?"

Harry's mouth feels dry all of a sudden. He must have missed that lesson in school. Then again, the Dursleys didn't like to draw a lot of attention by letting him go to too many classes. Especially ones aimed at informing a possible omega Guide.

"A Sentinel's senses are tripled when bonded to an Omega Guide," Tom continues. "A Guide is able to stretch their empathy to great distances and with considerably more force. Together they are, simply put, better. An unstoppable force."

Harry sits quietly for a bit, mulling over this new information. Eventually he asks, "But why do _you_ want that?" At Tom's raised brow, he hastily adds, "You know, despite having power just to have power. You need it for something, don't you?"

Harry's eye is sharp and Tom's careful not to let too much slip. He doesn't answer for a while and Harry wonders if he might answer at all. But then his grip on the edge of the tub tightens and a muscle in his jaw flexes. His expression is blank.

 _Guarded_ , Harry supplies.

It's a good thing Harry doesn't need to read his face anyway. His answer is in the uncertainty coming through the bond.

" _Tom_ ," Harry insists.

"I want to get rid of Voldemort."

"Sorry, Tom, but that isn't news."

Tom makes an agitated noise. "If I bond with you, I'll have the respect and loyalty of the D.E. Once you have that, the whole game changes."

There's a covetous gleam in his eye when he says it. Harry's lips press into a thin line.

"Fantastic. And I'll be bonded to a mob boss," Harry says. "I'll send cards at Christmas while you send body parts! Just what I envisioned for how I wanted the rest of my life to look like."

"Whether it is or not is irrelevant now."

The cold statement makes something in Harry's chest flare. "That's shite comfort, Tom," he snaps.

"It's not meant to be comforting."

Harry grinds his teeth together and starts to get out of the bathtub. He vehemently refuses Tom's help and bats away any hands that attempt to touch him. Harry does accept the towel, however, and grabs it from the other man before hastily wrapping it around his waist.

Tom watches as Harry moves into the bedroom and finds clothes to change into. He doesn't bat an eye when green eyes look up and shoot him a black look for staring.

The heat inside Tom bubbles close to a boil.

He wants to run his hands all over that pink skin. Bite into that tender spot just between Harry's neck and shoulder. Admire his pretty sex up close. Hear Harry moan in something other than pain.

Harry moves over to the bed. Tom is given a weary look when he approaches.

"I think I can tuck myself in, thanks," Comes the sour response.

Tom doesn't stop until he's standing directly next to Harry and wrapping his arms around him. Harry stiffens but the pheromones make it hard to resist for long. A heavy sigh escapes his lips and there's no argument when Tom slides them both under the covers. He holds Harry from behind in a warm and secure grip. His nose presses into the skin and hair at the back of Harry's neck like it's his own baby blanket.

Eventually Harry entwines their hands together and a rush of warmth floods his chest, sending a flush up his neck. He's instantly soothed by the skin contact and can feel the contentment filter through from Tom as well. In no time at all, Harry finds himself lulled into a doze.

"I'm not… good at this," Tom begins and trails off, unable to find the right words.

"No shit?" Harry mumbles.

The arms tighten around him as Tom's forehead presses closer into the back of his neck.

"I mean having _someone else_."

Harry's arm holds onto Tom's around his chest. He understands the unspoken words and softens. "I'll help you," he murmurs.

* * *

It's late afternoon when Harry wakes again. Amber light throws Bill's old room into burnt orange shadows and rosy hues. Harry almost forgets why he's here. Forgets the reason why he's entwined with a hard body in Bill's bed. Why there's a face buried in his hair at the back of his head with arms holding him in a strong but loose grip.  
Even when realization slowly dawns, Harry doesn't move. He doesn't think he could even if he wanted to. Letting this happen is so much easier.

Tom's eyes open to find another pair peering back at him on a pillow. His mind instantly goes to the colour of grass in spring. Of a shimmering leaf fluttering on the trees. Eyes that could be as dark as moss too, sometimes. Deep as a forest…

Why did it suddenly matter that Tom needed to label the colour? It felt important for some reason.

Something prods at the fragile moment until a deep, primal instinct urges Tom to speak.

"You need to eat," Tom says.

"So do you."

They come to a mutual agreement that they should go downstairs and feed themselves. Harry holds his side while he gingerly raises himself from the bed. A large palm at his back helps him until his feet are placed firmly on the floor beside the bed. He hears Tom move behind him when a sharp twinge causes Harry to look over his shoulder.

Despite the slightly rumpled clothes and hair, Tom appears unfazed and stony.

"Does it hurt?"

Tom shoots Harry a look from across the bed. "If you're going to try and apologize again - "

"I wasn't," Harry lies.

Tom continues to stare at him but there's a sparkle in his dark eyes. "You're getting better at escaping punishment."

Harry's mouth twists into a crooked grin. "Oh?"

The subtle shift in Harry's tone has Tom's eyes sharpening. "You're on too much pain medication. Don't invite something you're not prepared for."

Harry lets out an exasperated laugh. "You're the strangest Sentinel I've ever met, you know."

Tom comes round the bed and helps Harry to stand. Being this close, it's hard for Harry not to lean in just the tiniest bit. He inhales that strong, safe aroma that's distinctly _Tom_ while his fingers curl into the fabric at the other man's side. "Most would have a nice big bite on my neck by now."

Possessiveness radiates through their skin and Tom's hand covers Harry's at his side. He gently squeezes the fingers. "I told you," Tom says. "I'm not one to beg."

"And I am?"

"You will be."

Instead of being angry, a flush blooms bright on Harry's face. His body feels hot and his heart surges. Swallowing, he averts his eyes and says, "Arse."

Fingers on his chin turn his head and suddenly Harry's mouth is meeting Tom's in a passionate kiss. Tiny shocks race through Harry's veins and he tries not to sigh into it but discovers he can't help it when Tom eventually pulls away. Dark eyes hold steady on him as if gauging what he'll do. Or logging what effect the gesture has. Harry wonders if it means anything to Tom or if he's just experimenting. Seeing how far he can get Harry to go until he can't take it anymore.

Either way, Harry feels like he's losing the game. There's a longing pang in his chest.

The two of them stare at one another for another moment before Tom moves to go. Harry follows in a kind of doze, lips tingling and skin prickling with warmth.

* * *

When they arrive downstairs, Harry can't help but feel as though all eyes are on them. He supposes it might be odd seeing him so close to the man who almost killed him and his friends. But coming round to stand next to Tom shouldn't be such a big deal. He certainly doesn't think handing the other man a mug of hot tea is odd either. Maybe if they saw the way their hands brushed and lingered slightly before pulling away… But Harry doesn't want to think about why he can't move far from Tom's side. So any knowing, sharp looks from Hermione can be ignored. For now.

* * *

The next day finds Harry sitting with the Weasleys eating lunch. Tom's disappeared out the back door to do whatever it is he does during the day. Patrolling the area or training his senses. Harry wouldn't be surprised if this were the case. Just this morning he found the other man cleaning his guns in Bill's room while last night Tom stomped past him on his way to take a shower, clothes damp with sweat.

The very man comes in now, his face a mask of poise and calm. Harry's the only one who feels something stir underneath.

"What's up with you?" Ron says.

Tom marches over and grips Harry's shoulder.

"What the hell, Tom?" Harry yells as he's manhandled out of his chair.

"Oi! Leave him alone," Ron shouts.

"Be quiet. There's someone coming."

Everyone stills at Tom's words. Looks are traded over the table.

"The bloody hell are you on about?" Ron asks. "I don't smell _or hear_ – "

Ron's suddenly cut off by the shriek of the doorbell. It splits the silence and hangs in the air, heavy with foreboding.


	16. Riddle Gets Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being off the grid for longer than usual; Now that my TBB fic is done with, I can focus on wrapping this one up! But thank you for all the encouraging comments that were left on this in the meantime – They really mean a lot to me. Xx

_Shock, surprise, fear_ pounds through the room in the space of single heartbeat. Harry’s lungs are filled with it. Green eyes search the corners of the cluttered kitchen in question. They dart over the large, second-hand wooden table to the pair of Welly’s by the back door. Harry’s answer comes in the form of Hermione hissing the words “ _Quick, Harry! Hide!_ ”

Harry doesn’t think before he grabs the large warm hand in his and pulls.

He and Tom fly through the tiny corridors of the house until Harry slides to a stop in front of a small cupboard. He yanks open the doors and tucks them away into the dark, cramped space within. The smell of dusty clothes fills his nose and the threads of a scratchy wool coat brush against his cheek. Meanwhile a much larger thing presses up on him in the small space. A thing with an increasingly intoxicating presence about him.

Harry dares not speak let alone move, for fear that those at the front door will hear him.

Tom doesn’t seem to share the same fear. His arms come up to manoeuver Harry so that he’s sandwiched between Tom and the back of the closet.

The sound of a familiar voice drifts into the house. It distracts Harry from tracing the dim outline taking up his limited view; The back of a strong but elegant neck, the set of broad shoulders covered by a thin shirt. 

“Good evening, Mr and Mrs Weasley,” The voice outside says. “And Miss Granger, of course. Mr Weasley…”

Harry’s breath catches and Tom reaches back to squeeze his wrist. The message is clear: Keep quiet.

“Mr Dumbledore!” Molly cries. “Oh, what a surprise, my goodness.”

“I hope I’m not intruding, but I thought it best if I’d pop in just to see if everyone was still in good health.”

“Not at all!” Molly sounds flustered but invites him in. 

“You’ll have to forgive our surprise, Albus,” Mr Weasley speaks now. “We weren’t expecting anyone from the Order to be visiting today.” 

“That’s quite alright, Arthur. If I thought you’d be expecting me, I’d be very surprised myself.” 

“Mr, Dumbledore – sorry – but is everything alright?” Hermione asks. 

“Alert as always, Miss Granger, but yes I should hope so. I trust there haven’t been any hired guns your way?” 

A long beat of silence. Tom can almost see how the others fail to cover up their shock.

Nervous laughter and a loud clatter comes from the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?” Molly asks.

Tom winces beside Harry in the closet. Harry’s hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. A gentle push through the bond helps him to steady a potential Zone though he’s sure Tom would insist it’s not needed.  

“If you don’t mind,” Dumbledore accepts in a jovial tone. There are the sounds of everyone settling themselves before he speaks again. “My arrival here today is not entirely social, I’m afraid. There’s been reports of a high-speed chase on the A30 recently, in addition to a skirmish in a petrol station along the way.” 

“Blimey,” Ron says. “S’like a James Bond film or something.”

There’s the sound of cups laid out and hot tea being poured.

“My thoughts exactly, Mr Weasley. It’s troubling to see how this whole ordeal has been going on for such an amount of time. I’ll concede that the man Harry travels with is quite skilled to evade us all for so long, particularly Voldemort and his D.E..” 

Harry rolls his eyes when a trickle of pride ekes through from Tom.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to call in two gentlemen I brought along with me,” Dumbledore continues. “Just to take a look round and make sure everything is quite sound?” 

Another half-second of nervous activity, less than that. But it’s enough to make Harry’s temple damp.

“Oh! Yes,” Molly says. “Yes, of course. That’s quite alright. We don’t mind, do we Arthur?”

Harry can almost hear Hermione chewing on her lip and Ron shifting on his feet.

His friends really are terrible liars.

“No, of course,” Arthur replies. “Go ahead, we’ll just stay out of your way then.”

* * *

Tom sharpens his senses. Although it’s hard to admit, the presence of Harry in his head helps. He can smell everything from the asphalt and flowers 1 kilometre down the road to the cloying musty odour of the closet. It almost overpowers the delicate spice of Harry’s sweat and skin underneath.   
But Tom finds it. He grabs it and uses it to ground himself. Once he’s got a firm hold, he stretches –

Harry’s breath. Harry’s heartbeat. The shift of his fingers pressed into the shirt on Tom’s shoulder. 

Push out. 

Dive under the stream of voices to the creaks and groans of the old floorboards, the tick of the refrigerator, a loud clock on the kitchen fireplace, cheap glass teacups and slurping… 

Two sets of booted feet come thundering into the house. They meander between the tiny, cluttered rooms with purpose. There’s the scrape and slam of things being moved and opened. Footsteps clambering up and down winding, rickety stairs and pass by the closet without pause. Tom frowns. These are low-level Sentinels but they should pick up something. Anything. 

Tom thinks regretfully of the stash of his own pills buried in the duffle upstairs.

The hand on his shoulder clenches. 

Realization hits and Tom can feel the steady flow of concentration as Harry helps to ground him, but also _shield_ him. 

A flutter of pride warms Tom’s chest. He’s taught the Guide well. 

* * *

Once they’ve gone, Harry’s hand slides off Tom’s shoulder and the dip in energy is palpable. Tom moves to turn but the other’s hands come up to rest round his middle, holding him in place. He freezes when Harry’s head tips forward to rest against his back. 

Odd. But not unpleasant. 

Tom’s thoughts linger on the fingers flexing around his middle as he waits for Harry. He thinks about turning round, taking the other up against the cramped closet wall. Scenting that slightly spicy sweat, claiming that panting mouth with his own.

Light floods into the small space and the arms around Tom drop. 

Ron stares in at them with a skeptical look until they both slip out of the closet. 

When they all shuffle back into the kitchen, Hermione is the first to ask: “Harry, are you alright? Do you think they sensed you?” 

Molly’s leaning against the counter and fanning herself with a tea towel and Arthur’s sitting at the table with a look of deep concentration on his face. They both look up when Harry and Tom come in. 

“I’m fine,” Harry answers. “And no, I don’t think they sensed us.” 

“Well, there’s certainly been a lot of excitement this past week, hasn’t there,” Molly says. “I think I’m going to have a little lie-down.” 

She squeezes Harry’s arms on her way past him to the stairs. He feels a pang of guilt for Mrs Weasley as she leaves.   

“Are you certain, Harry? Those were two highly-skilled Sentinels that just came in now,” Arthur chimes in. 

“Harry is a skilled Guide.” 

All eyes whip to Tom, including Harry’s which widen in surprise. 

“Brilliant,” Ron says. “I’m sure Harry really appreciates the compliment, seeing as it’s coming from a homicidal maniac.” 

Tom swiftly replies, “If you were anywhere near a half-decent Sentinel you’d know that it’s a fact, not a compliment.” 

Ron’s nostrils flare and Hermione grips his shoulder before he can do anything stupid. 

Tom holds him with a steady glare before continuing. “And even if Harry were not able to shield us, I have my own… precautionary measures in place.” 

“And that would be what, exactly?” Ron says. “A bloody AK47?” 

Tom’s lip curls. “A 9 millimetre, if you want to be specific.” 

There’s a pause where Ron’s jaw drops and Hermione’s hand slips from his arm. 

“Jesus, I’ll bet you get off on it, don’t you?” Ron says in a disbelieving tone. “Killing everyone and everything – like it’s some sick game.” 

“Not everyone, no. Just those who are _in the way_ ,” Tom replies pointedly. 

Ron moves forward and Tom’s stance shifts. Alarm bells go off in Harry’s head as he tries to think of how to stop the inevitable. 

“Come again?” Ron says. “What was that, you fucking prick!”

A chair at the kitchen table scrapes back as Arthur rises. “Alright now, Ron, settle down,” he warns. 

Tom leans forward dangerously and Harry can see him eyeing his friend in a coldly calculating way. Harry yells.

“Enough already!”

“He’s completely barmy!” Ron shouts before falling silent. 

Though Ron continues to exude anger, the rage radiating from Tom is like a blaring horn. Harry catches Hermione’s eye and knows she feels it too. It eats up the space in the tiny room, making it shiver with dark promise. 

“Tom, come on,” Harry says. He’s surprised when he manages to make it sound like an order rather than a request. 

Most surprising of all is when Tom actually obeys.

  
Harry gently tugs the Sentinel away from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into Bill’s room where he corners him against the door. 

“Hey, come on,” Harry says when Tom still looks like his mind is left downstairs. The other man vibrates with uncontained aggression which slams against Harry’s mind. “Tom, please. I need you to calm down.” 

“I’m going to kill him.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“I am.” 

“ _Tom_ ,” Harry says. Tom looks at him. They hold each other’s gaze as Harry’s hands slowly come up to cup the other’s face. An unfocused glaze remains in Tom’s dark eyes but it’s receding the longer Harry touches him.

Green eyes flicker across his pale, handsome features. They take in the leftover bruising staining one cheek and the full, sensual mouth. Even Tom’s eyebrows hold some dark kind of allure. 

After a beat of consideration, Harry leans in. 

His lips press against Tom’s in a brief, tentative kiss and when he pulls back, dark eyes are watching him closely, considering. Harry’s already breathing heavily. With a thrill of adrenaline, he goes in again. This time he plants a few more uncertain pecks until Tom’s rumbling against him with a low growl. Suddenly a hand wraps around Harry’s neck in a firm grasp and shoves him against the nearest wall, pinning him there. Tom radiates with a restless and feral energy now. 

Perhaps kissing him wasn’t the best idea in the world. 

But Harry is already rock hard and his veins feel like fire. Wide eyes stare back at Tom who looms closer to crush their mouths together. Their lips move against each other in an all-consuming, passionate kiss. Tom’s arms move to fold around Harry’s back in a strong grip. 

When they finally break for air, they’re gasping. But even then, they can’t stay apart for too long. 

Harry quickly comes to the realization that when he kisses Tom, it’s almost impossible to stop. Each time their mouths meet, he feels like he’s tumbling, falling off the edge of a great height, and to hell if he cares about the landing. This, right now, is all that matters; The slick slide of their mouths and tongues. Burning skin against burning skin. Harry grips a fistful of short black hair as fingers dig into his own back.

Harry’s so lost that when Tom starts to tug him gently over to the bed, he can do nothing but go quietly. They break away for air and Tom inhales deeply. “I can smell you,” he sighs. Harry groans and Tom bars his teeth against his jaw before he continues in a harsh whisper, “You drive me fucking crazy.” He punctuates the words with a nip to Harry’s earlobe before his tongue flattens against his skin and starts to lick a stripe up Harry’s taut, pale neck. It elicits a louder noise in response as Harry bucks his hips against Tom’s. 

“I’m going to bend you over and claim you. Make you scream my name,” Tom adds in a murmur against Harry’s skin. “Again and again….” He gives a delicious twist with his hips, grinding against Harry’s cock in just the right way that makes him gasp.

“Oh, God, Tom,” Harry whispers. “Please… just…” 

Harry trails off, unwilling to voice what he wants out loud. But he quickly finds it even more agonizing when Tom finally pauses. 

“What, Harry,” Tom says. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think it was teasing. But the ferocious hunger in those dark eyes is too searing. Too desperate. 

“Tell me what you want.” 

Harry whines. He can feel the slick between his legs already. The uncontained heat in his belly and the tightness in his groin. Every inch of his body screams out for this, and for Tom.

“Fuck it, Tom!” Harry pants. “Just take me, I want you inside me right now, _please_ – !“ He breaks off with a yelp when Tom yanks his legs to hook round his torso. The other man then picks him up and swiftly deposits him on the bed before he rapidly follows, climbing on to hover above Harry. His eyes are hooded but the gleam of a satisfied grin hides behind them. 

“Remember that you asked for this,” Tom reminds him in an ominous tone. 

Harry can do nothing but give a breathless nod. Anything to make Tom ease the burning inside him. The emptiness that craves to be filled with everything that’s Tom, his Sentinel, his _Alpha_.

Tom descends on Harry’s mouth again while his hands make quick, efficient work of Harry’s trousers. Once they’re off, Tom pulls away to tear off his own shirt and throw it to the side before claiming Harry’s mouth in another hungry kiss. This eagerness is met with Harry’s own and they fuel each other until it ignites into a frenzy of clothes being ripped off and thoughtlessly discarded. 

Harry attempts to voice a weak concern about the others hearing them but Tom assures him with a possessive growl that his ‘little friends have left’ and ‘the mother is fast asleep while the father’s gone down to the local’. 

Once all of Harry’s clothes are off, he’s laid bare before Tom and his hungry sweeping gaze. He drinks him in like he’s waited for this since the first moment they met. 

He probably has. 

Harry shivers from the stare or the thought. Tom’s eyes shutter. 

A large covetous hand runs down Harry’s torso – from his neck, to his chest, stomach, and ends on his inner thigh. Harry gasps when Tom takes hold of his erection and gives it a good few pumps that leave Harry undulating into thin air. The hold is gone in the next moment and Harry makes a disappointed noise that’s answered with a teasing ‘tut’. Tom’s hand cups the back of Harry’s neck while the other slides between his legs and into the cleft of his arse, rubbing the sensitive hole, slick and slippery with Harry’s own fluid. The movement has Harry bucking and pushing against Tom, wanton and eager. 

This is everything he never wanted to be, never wanted anyone to witness; Another portrayal of a weak and submissive Omega. Yet Harry can’t find a shred of that old sense of stubbornness now. Doesn’t know why he had it in the first place when _this just feels too fucking good_.

If Tom wasn’t projecting so loudly, his face certainly shows his smugness. It’s carefully laced with the intense lust and the look of it consumes Harry. It amazes him that Tom’s even showing it, and makes Harry wonder if maybe everyone has their breaking points and it only took the right person to tip them over the edge.

Harry’s thoughts are abruptly interrupted when Tom pushes in, thick and heavy and _so so good_. Harry moans loudly, mouth open and pleading. He breathes heavily through his nose, head tossing on the pillow as he feels Tom fit himself inside him. So big, Harry thinks with some alarm. But then Tom pauses, allows him a moment to adjust for which Harry is extremely grateful. 

This seems to be the extent of his altruism though, because as soon as Harry’s ready for him to move, Tom’s gentle rocking turns to slamming with no regard for being gentle at all. Harry takes it valiantly and with no complaint, though Tom’s hands will surely bruise and his kisses leave marks. 

Harry feels like his very soul is being fucked out of him. 

He gasps, fingers and toes curling against the bed sheets. His back arches, eyes shut tight and mouth open and letting out the most embarrassing noises. (Though Tom seems to enjoy them if his rigor and salacious gaze is anything to go by.) Tom gazes down at him with an almost sadistic glint in his eye, pleased that his Guide begs for his touch, and his touch alone. 

“Oh God – Tom, please – “ Harry starts when he’s cut off by his own pathetic whine. This is when Tom decides to show mercy, and his hand glides up Harry’s thigh to take hold of him at the base, large hands roughly sliding up and down his shaft.

Harry cries out, his neck stretching, long and pale. The throb of a pulse just below the skin, a blue vein standing out next to the gland that begs to be bitten. Tom’s free hand instantly goes to cover the spot, to stroke and massage and caress it reverently.

Tom’s eyes shadow with longing. “Say it,” he half whispers, half pants. It sounds like a plea.

Harry’s eyes crack open and look at Tom. There’s a sheen of sweat covering his skin and Harry’s eyes take in the small scars and bruising. Without thinking, he leans up to kiss them, giving them tiny licks and burying his nose in the beautiful scent and feel. Tom’s breath hitches and his hips jerk into Harry with more enthusiasm before he pulls back again. 

“ _Say it_ ,” he hisses, eyes burning as they stare into Harry’s. Tom can hear the sound of a heartbeat pick up. Can feel it thundering under his palm and fingertips. 

Harry’s head slowly bobs once, twice. “Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck – Yes, just do it. I want you to. Christ, I want you to so badly.” 

And it’s true. Harry never thought he’d be saying the words, but not having Tom’s bite right now feels like it would be agony.

A hot flare of want rages through Tom and he leans down to lock their mouths together. His fingers fist in wild black hair and tug as Harry whines wantonly. The sound spurs Tom on and he delves deeper into the hot cavern of Harry’s mouth, entwining their tongues and grunting when the other man sucks gently, moans deliciously, as his length presses against his stomach. Tom continues to pump in and out of his tight little omega, and only when Harry is a squirming, incoherent mess does he pull back. With teeth barred, he surges down on the exposed neck to sink his teeth into the tantalizing gland.  
   
Harry howls in pleasure and his fingers slide against sweaty skin. They scrabble at the back of Tom’s head and arms, looking for purchase or to just keep hold of the hot mouth on his neck. Body rigid, back arching beautifully, Harry tries to get closer – To somehow try and meld himself to the other body and become one with it. 

There’s a warmth, liquid and bright, that flows into Harry’s mind. It passes through his mental shields like mist and seeps into his very core to make a home there. 

Harry gasps and becomes rigid. With a blissful sigh and helpless shudder, his seed spills out of him in small shocks of pleasure. Harry savours the feeling of Tom licking and laving at the bite he’s just made as he descends. The mark which claims Harry is _his_ now.

Tom growls low in his throat, a heavy, pleased sound before he abruptly flips Harry over. Harry is too boneless and sated to do anything but comply. 

Then he feels the blunt head of Tom’s large girth breach him again and he pushes back eagerly, humming faintly and murmuring a string of words that hopefully sound encouraging. Tom grunts and pushes into the slick heat. Harry moans. 

“You like that?” Tom purrs softly next to his ear. “Do you like me inside you?”

A whimper is the response, and a repeat of the word “Yes” over and over again. 

Tom starts to move again. He also can’t leave the bite mark alone and kisses, laves, or nuzzles it whenever he has the chance. 

After a few more thrusts, Harry can feel Tom’s pleasure crash through him with a thundering force, and he shudders as the other overflows inside him. It feels like it should be too much but Harry can’t get enough, wants more and more until he’s completely filled with Tom. 

Finally Tom’s head falls into the space between Harry’s shoulder blades and Harry can feel hot breaths searing his skin. Strong arms wrap round Harry’s middle before pulling them both down to lie beside each other on the bed.  
  
Harry would never pin Tom as clingy or affectionate. Not in a million years. But when they’re both relatively sated for the moment, and Harry attempts to pull away or slip off Tom’s still hard member inside him, the Sentinel rumbles low in his chest and pulls him closer. The arms squeeze tighter, biting down on his mark, until Harry whimpers and goes lax in his arms again where he stretches and arches into the contact. Tom’s never completely still though, and keeps touching, exploring with his tongue and hands and teeth until Harry becomes fully erect and they start moving. Deep, slow thrusts that have Harry letting out long loud moans until he releases with a violent shudder all over the sheets and Tom’s hand once more.

* * *

A powder blue Ford Anglia rumbles down the quiet road toward the solitary crooked little house the Wealseys call home. Hermione sighs when they finally park in the small driveway. Ron reaches over to place his hand over hers. She turns to look at him with her warm brown eyes. The side of Ron’s mouth quirks and she smiles in return. 

“Sorry about earlier. I just…” he trails off, his eyes moving to stare out the front window. 

Hermione squeezes his hand. “I know, Ron. It’s alright. Trust me, I’d love nothing more than to…” She purses her lips and Ron doesn’t doubt that she’d give the Alpha Sentinel prick a good swat for all the shite he’s put them through. 

Ron grins crookedly. “If he weren’t a hit man, that is. Right?” 

She laughs. “Right.” Then - “Come on, we’d better make sure Harry’s still alive in there.” 

“At least the place hasn’t burned down yet,” Ron comments drily. 

Hermione laughs again as they get out of the car. They grab the bags of groceries from the trunk before walking up to the front door. 

Ron fiddles with the keys before opening the door. When he does, he almost staggers backward from the smell that slams into him.

He swears under his breath and Hermione comes up to his side. “Ron, what is it? What’s wrong?” 

But then she seems to find her answer because she frowns and slowly turns to look through the doorway. She pulls on Ron’s arm. “Come on.” And they go in. The smell only seems to get even stronger. They both know what it is. 

It’s the unmistakable scent of alpha pheromones and sex. 

Ron and Hermione rush into the house, worried that they’re too late to stop something awful. They come to a screeching halt when they spot Harry in the living room, snug and loose and relaxed in sweats and a large t-shirt with Tom curled protectively around him. 

Tom’s eyes immediately latch onto them and watch, unblinking, unwavering. Tracking every movement, every step as if they are a threat to Harry. 

“Oh God,” Ron wails. “Tell me you didn’t!” 

Harry at least has the decency to flush bright red and send his friend an apologetic and mortified look. Tom doesn’t help the situation by nuzzling the back of his neck near where the bite mark must be. Harry blushes and shifts even more. 

Hermione coughs. “Right, um – we’ll just – we’ll be in the kitchen…” 

She tugs Ron with her to retreat and unload the groceries. Ron looks back at Harry like he’s personally offended him or witnessed some horrible tragedy. 

“Can you bloody believe that? The wanker almost kills us and our best mate’s shagging him not three weeks later!” 

Hermione flaps her hand at him, flustered and embarrassed. “Ron, shhh!” 

“What! Can’t I say what we’re all thinking? God, what about mum and dad?” he complains loudly. “The place smells like a bloody heat –“ 

“Ronald Billius Weasley!” Hermione says shrilly and they fall into a muted, heated argument.

* * *

“I don’t believe your friends are too impressed with you at the moment…” Tom murmurs against Harry’s ear. Harry grimaces though a permanent pink stains his cheeks. Despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to get rid of it and blames the other entirely for this whole mess.

“I completely blame you for this whole thing,” Harry grumbles. 

Tom threads their fingers together on Harry’s lap while his other hand rubs soothing and stimulating circles on his stomach. 

“You’re the one who invited me into your bed,” Tom reminds him.

Harry flushes even harder, brows knitting together. “Yes, well,” he mumbles. “It’s all for the cause, isn’t it?” 

Tom pauses his stroking and says, “If it makes you feel better to lie to yourself, then yes. You let me fuck you for the greater good.” 

Harry chokes back a splutter and squirms in the other man’s lap. Tom has a hard time trying not to grin.

* * *

The house falls into a strange routine though tensions continue to run high. Ron in particular seems to be rubbing Tom the other way and vice versa. Thankfully Ginny is mostly preoccupied with Ellie and carting her to the park or to the nursery, so she’s not in the house as much to be a threat to Tom. Hermione tries her best to get Ron out of the house as much as possible, if not to just give her own mental shields a rest from it all. Harry, on the other hand… Well, he has his own methods of keeping Tom preoccupied.

“You so rarely act like an Omega, I’m going to enjoy this,” Tom says one night in particular. He wraps his fingers around Harry’s throat and thrusts his tongue into his mouth. After having Harry on his hands and knees, he tosses him over on his back, jamming right into him again. Harry gets his own back by scoring nails into the skin of Tom’s back as the other presses bruises into his hips and thighs. Harry watches Tom move above him with hooded eyes, can do nothing but just feel him moving in and out of him. The thickness and the slide. That was them: Push and pull. Harry’s mouth is open and letting out those ridiculous sounds again, but Tom just gives him scorching looks, black eyes searing. 

It’s safe to say it worked and they were both thoroughly preoccupied that night, and more than once.

When they aren’t busy consummating their bond, Tom plans for their next move. He goes out into the wild garden in the back and stalks through the field. He can smell the gasoline and rusting metal of the car he hid in the trees a few miles away. No other Sentinel would smell that far without Zoning. But Tom can. He uses his senses to explore, searching to make sure the area is secure. He keeps his body in peak physical form by training with weapons and running each morning. He polishes his guns and knives, takes stock of them twice a day – Before bed and when he wakes up. Sometimes Harry’s there to watch, and mostly he doesn’t comment.

Sometimes Tom thinks that they shouldn’t be possible. Their situation is beyond what anyone would call normal for a Guide and Sentinel pair, but here they are. He knows Harry has doubts too. Can feel it ebb in the dark corners of their bond at night when Harry thinks he’s asleep. Sometimes he can even understand: Harry isn’t a killer or a criminal.   
Tom is. 

He knows Harry too much already. Knows him enough to believe that neither will back down if it came to one of them having to compromise everything they stand for just for the other. They’ve been doing a passable job so far but he can feel the strain it takes on Harry. Tom knows he won’t be able to keep himself back from doing what he has to do either. Not for long anyway. 

He also knows that Harry won’t ask him to change either and the thought makes Tom feel like his heart is being squeezed.   
Tom wonders if he could ever be that selfless. Probably not.

“What’s our next move?” Harry asks late one night. The rest of the house is sleeping, has been for hours. 

Tom shifts on the bed behind him. “We destroy every trace of Omega blood being studied in his labs.”

In an unconscious movement, Harry’s hand seems to go straight to the inside of his elbow. The puncture wound healed long ago but he can still feel it.

“What if it’s too late?” Harry asks quietly. “He’s probably got all he needs now anyway. He’s a hybrid.” 

“What Voldemort has made himself is unstable. His own body could turn on him at any moment and when that happens, I want there to be nothing he can turn to for help.”

Harry feels a sense of dark satisfaction at Tom’s words. 

A moment of silence passes. Harry shifts, slots himself into Tom more, and speaks into the hollow of his throat.

“And then what? What happens when Voldemort’s gone?”

Tom doesn’t answer right away. Instead his fingers trace a pattern on Harry’s stomach, gaze distant. “It’s not that simple,” he says. “Getting rid of Voldemort is like cutting off the head of the Lernean hydra… There will be more work to do before anything is truly over.”

Harry’s heart sinks. It’s a naïve thing to believe in the first place; that anything would be as simple as killing Voldemort. The disappointment isn’t less overwhelming though, and Tom must sense it. He pulls Harry closer and presses lips against the side of Harry’s neck in a comforting gesture. Harry melts into it, wishes this were the only thing that mattered. 

“Will it ever end?” Harry whispers.

This time Tom doesn’t answer at all, which is enough. 

Harry lets himself relax into the strong embrace and scenes like photographs flash before his eyes. Being held in the same embrace, but it’s become cold. The grip too tight. Soft words that should mean something sound mechanical and forced. Long days turn to weeks without seeing each other, then finally coming home to silence and secrets.

Threats, at first idle, that become real against the people Harry cares about. Kisses which taste of blood and tears. 

It’s all at once too real and true. Harry knows this with a singular certainty. Can feel it deep in his bones. 

He shuts his eyes.

* * *

The house is mostly empty. Ginny’s left Ellie with Harry while she and Molly have gone into town. Arthur’s at work and Ron and Hermione are making a point of staying well away from the newly bonded pair in the house. Harry suspects very few people have been able to sleep a wink with present hostilities in the house.

Which is why Tom’s chosen this moment to get his customary five minutes of pure blackout nap time. 

“Hah-ee!” Ellie says, and continues mumbling variations of the same sound. Harry grins and crouches next to her. 

“Did you just say my name?” Harry says. “Can you say ‘Uncle Harry’? Go on, say ‘Uncle Harry’.” 

Huge brown eyes gaze curiously up at Harry who stares back expectantly. 

Ellie’s mouth spreads into a wide toothless smile and Harry laughs. “Alright, then. You’re off the hook for now.” 

Harry startles when a sudden buzzing sound comes from behind him. It stops for a moment and then starts up again.

Is that… a cell phone? 

Harry searches in the grass and the flowerbeds nearby until he finally finds the source of the sound buried under the top layer of soil. It’s an old Nokia. Harry stares at it until the ringing eventually stops. Harry looks back at Ellie to make sure she’s still okay and frowns at the cellphone. Who left this out here? 

The buzzing abruptly starts up again and Harry almost drops it. 

He picks up. 

There’s a beat of silence before a familiar voice crackles through the line.

“Hello, Harry.” 

Harry's heart skips. He whips round and sees nothing but the fields and trees surrounding the burrow. 

“You'll find there's a small camera in the trees beyond, courtesy of my last visit. Of course, you might not see it, as it's meant to be proofed against even a Sentinel's keen eyesight but no matter.”

Harry’s voice shakes a little when he replies, “What do you want.”

“I hoped I might be able to discuss with you how to go about the capture of Mr Voldemort. It would need your involvement and full cooperation, however.” 

Harry’s heart thuds in his chest and he stares blankly at Ellie still playing on the grass. 

“I'm afraid you'll have to decide quickly, my boy, as I suspect your bondmate will awaken momentarily.”


	17. Rubio Illuminatus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with me in getting this out, and happy new year!

When Harry walks into their room one day it's to see the familiar black duffle lying open on the bed. It's stuffed with clothes and what Harry assumes are weaponry poking out here and there. His eyes cut to Tom tapping away at some beaten up old computer he found stashed in Arthur's junk in the garage.

"Tom?"

Tom replies without looking up from his screen. "Yes, love."

Harry's momentarily thrown by the unexpected term of endearment. His cheeks heat up before he realizes what he was about to say. "What the hell is this?" he demands. "What are you doing?"

Tom finally looks up and the expression on his face might be considered 'innocent' by some but Harry knows better.

"We're leaving."

Harry stills. "When?"

"Tonight, if that wasn't obvious."

Anger boils in Harry's chest. "I thought we agreed – " he starts when Tom snaps the laptop closed and rises from his chair.

"Yes, Harry," Tom says as he moves to shove the laptop into the duffle bag and zip it up. "I thought we _had_ agreed this was only temporary. We need to move on now."

Harry knows he's right. It was only a matter of time before they had to go but he can't help but feel a deep-seated sense of disappointment. Harry slowly shuffles further into the room and sits in Tom's vacated seat. He's a little lost now as he tries to come to terms with the idea they would be leaving the Burrow so soon.

A tautness tugs through the bond and Harry witnesses Tom's shoulders drop from his peripheral vision. The Sentinel turns his face enough to show his profile.

"The only good we'll be doing by staying here is increasing their chances of being killed. Is that what you want?"

Harry hates the brow which lifts in a challenge. He grits his teeth and slumps further into the chair. "Of course not," he says. Tom resumes his packing and Harry huffs. "I thought they could maybe help us… or something."

Tom stops what he's doing this time and turns round to face Harry, his face stone. "Don't be naïve, Harry, it doesn't suit you," he says. "Every minute that ticks by is another minute the D.E. and Voldemort get closer. Do you understand now?"

Harry falls silent, mouth slightly open as if to argue but finds no words. They get stuck in his throat so he nods dumbly. Of course he wouldn't risk this whole family. This was his own mess. He would clean it up himself, with Tom.

Harry's voice comes out in a sombre murmur. "Alright."

Gentle steps sound across the floor as Tom comes to stand before Harry. Long fingers lift his chin up and Tom stares down at him like a cold god made of porcelain and marble.

"I knew you'd understand."

Tom's finger gently traces pink lips and Harry's breath starts to come short.

"You should trust me to handle this. I know what I'm doing."

Harry's eyes shutter. "I do. I know you are," he whispers. Tom's finger grazes his cheekbone and eyelid.

Harry can almost hear the smile which accompanies Tom's word: "Good."

They leave in the dead of night. Harry not only feels like a thief but a terrible friend. The Weasleys have always been his home. They deserve better than a half-arsed letter explaining nothing beyond the fact he's leaving and doesn't know when he'll be back. Or if he even will be. Meagre words that beg not to look for him and tell how much he'll miss them.

Harry's eyes wander over the Burrow one last time. From the old Wellington boots by the door to the large fireplace in the kitchen. His eyes linger on the clock with one hand pointing to various times such as "You're late" and "Time to feed the chickens".

Harry prays he'll be able to see it all again, and sooner rather than later.

* * *

Snape doesn't need to be a sentinel to know Voldemort is tearing his office apart. The crashes can be heard all across the top floor. When he arrives at the door, he knocks softly and is answered with a hissed " _Enter!_ " before he steps inside. Voldemort tells a member Snape recognizes as Amycus Carrow that he's free to leave. Carrow does so gladly, almost tripping over himself to shove Snape aside in his haste to exit. The door shuts with an ominous click behind him and leaves Snape to stand idly with the volatile Hybrid in his office.

Snape surreptitiously surveys the damage that's been done to the place though every muscle is straining in his body from tension. Voldemort sprawls like a king in his leather chair, smooth head rolling on his neck in a manner which suggests he's not in a favourable mood. Eventually his eyes open and land on Snape. His thin lip slowly curls in a sneer. "What is it," he says.

"I'd heard word the search was proving… fruitless."

The sneer deepens into a scowl. Utmost contempt laces Voldemort's voice when he replies, "Obviously. I assume that old fool Dumbledore is no closer to finding them either?"

Snape answers without hesitation. "No, sir."

Voldemort makes a sound like a scoff. "If only that gave me comfort…" he says and swings his chair to the side before returning to Snape. "What is it then, I can only assume you haven't come to tell me of yet more failure," he continues with gleaming eyes. "Because I cannot promise there won't be consequences."  
Snape has no doubt Voldemort would like nothing more than to exact punishment on any living thing at the moment, so he hurries to tell him –

"No, sir. I've only come to offer my suggestion."

A hairless brow raises. "Oh?" Voldemort sits up straighter, mouth flashing in a feral grin. "Please, Mr Snape, do tell me how this colossal fiasco can be salvaged."

Snape's forehead is damp but he forges ahead. "Perhaps, sir, instead of continuing to search for them, we wait for them to come to you."

Voldemort is silent for a long moment, eyes too penetrating and watchful. Like he knows something.

"And what makes you think the traitorous snake will come back here with his precious prize?"

Snape swallows and makes sure there's no outward signs of his trepidation. "I have reason to believe Riddle will want to make sure life with his… prize will be secure and free from any disruptions," he answers carefully.

"Of course. He will want me gone," Voldemort finishes with a hum before abruptly jumping from his chair to stalk over to Snape. The latter holds himself stone still as Voldemort stops a hair's breadth away from his face and looks down his nose at him.

"Very good, Mr Snape… Very good indeed," Voldemort says. His eyes roam over Snape slowly before finally turning away. The Mute man's shoulders drop.

"Get the others prepared, I want all personnel on alert," Voldemort barks. "And inform Bella she'll be entrusted with our little snake when he arrives. I want it to be a warm welcome for our most loyal Death Eater."

When Voldemort turns his head, a cruel smile is painted on the slash of his mouth.

Snape nods carefully. "As you wish, sir." He turns to leave but stops when Voldemort adds over his shoulder –

"Ah yes, and bring back Carrow. Incompetency should not be dismissed. Someone must answer for this gross mishap in our plans, don't you agree? I believe it sets a good example."

A shiver runs down Snape's spine and he can barely manage another "Yes, sir." before leaving. Goose bumps linger on his skin all through his journey back down the hall and ten floors down in the elevator.

* * *

Tom's hands grip the steering wheel tightly and Harry's eyes idly trace the faint blue veins, white knuckles and powerful grip. They took the Weasley's powder blue Ford Anglia which Harry still feels tremendously guilty about. Not for the first time, Harry thinks how Tom is the epitome of a bad influence.

They stop at the nearest train station to head back into London. Harry's relieved the Ford Anglia won't be treated like all their other getaway vehicles, and is certain Mr Weasley will be even more so when he eventually gets it back. Tom grabs the duffle from the back and fishes out the laptop before quickly powering it up. While he does whatever he's doing, Harry snoops.

Rummaging around in the duffle, Harry finds clothing, weapons, and a paper pharmacy bag. He takes out a bottle of pills and printed in bold letters on the label it reads: 'Caution: Do not exceed the recommended dose.' Then beneath that: 'Overdose can result in slowed heart rate, irregular breathing, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, headaches, and in some cases death. Consult emergency services in the event that more than two capsules are consumed every four hours…'

Harry frowns. "These aren't heat suppressors."

Tom sends him a look from the driver's seat and with one hand attempts to shove the bottle back into the duffle.

"Tom, what are they?" Harry demands.

An irritated sigh. "Suppressors. Only they're not for omegas."

Harry's still confused and Tom elaborates with an amused glint in his eye, "You can thank those for allowing me into Grimmauld Place, by the way." Harry doesn't find this as impressive or amusing and shoves the bottle back into the duffle with a sour slant to his mouth. When he looks up again, he finds Tom's gone right back to the computer.

Harry sighs. "Christ. Who are you talking to on that thing anyway?"

"Potential associates."

Harry almost has to laugh. "That so?"

No answer.

"Look, am I going to get an elaboration on what the plan is anytime soon or will I be kept in the dark entirely?"

Harry thinks Tom might not answer again; He's not even listening. Just as Harry's about to raise his voice, Tom slams the laptop closed and looks up at him.

"Malfoy."

"Wh – _Malfoy_?" Harry sputters. "The fuck has Malfoy got anything to do with anything?"

"He's our next target. We're going to be keeping him under surveillance for the next week when we get into London. He's got the access we need to get into Basilisk labs."

Harry throws his head back against the headrest and groans.

Tom gives him a sideways look. "I told you being a hired gun wasn't as fun as you think it is."

Harry laughs darkly. "If I ever thought being a murderer was 'fun', the idea's been completely discarded by now if not weeks ago."

There's a twitch of Tom's mouth that he tries to hide by ducking his head and reaching into the back to retrieve a plain grey backpack.

"What's that?" Harry asks.

"Our disguise," Tom replies.

He shoves some clothing at Harry who plucks at a shirt that looks vaguely familiar. "Are these Bill's?"

"Yes," Tom replies and is already tugging off his sweater and shirt with economic efficiency.

Harry takes a brief moment to admire the expanse of skin before he slowly starts to peel away his shirt as well. Once it's off, he reaches for the new one when his wrist is clamped in an iron grip. Startled, Harry looks up and finds dark eyes fixated on his bare chest with a hungry look. Harry swallows and feels his body immediately react by flushing red hot with arousal.

When Tom doesn't seem to be able to do anything beyond stare, Harry takes it on himself to act. With fumbling limbs, he manages to crawl over into the driver's seat and plant himself on Tom's lap. Tom looks anticipatory but restless. Like he's a split second away from tearing away the rest of Harry's clothing. Harry shudders at the threat but wants to hold onto this power for as long as he can. He leans in to plaster their chests together and lets out a sigh at how good it feels. To have hot skin against hot skin.

Tom's hands come up to plant on his back.

As languidly as possible, Harry unzips his trousers and pushes them down enough so his cock springs free. His hips start making little rocking motions until he's grinding against Tom in the car seat. A low grumbling reverberates from Tom's chest but his eyes are drinking Harry in, allowing him this momentary sense of control.

This courtesy doesn't last for very long, not when Harry's eyes close and his head dips to rest against Tom's. Not when he utters a breathy sigh of "Fill me up. Please, I need your scent."

With quick reflexes Tom's growling and grabbing Harry with rough hands. His teeth latch onto the bite mark on Harry's neck and make him gasp out loud in surprise and pleasure.

Harry's still stroking Tom, pulling on his engorged penis until Tom's hands bat him away and hold himself at the base. "Sit on it," he orders, voice rough from pleasure.

Harry's heart jumps and his face flares. He doesn't need to be asked twice though, and promptly lifts himself up so Tom can align himself before Harry lowers back down. A breath shudders out from Harry's mouth at the feeling of Tom inside him. So thick but sliding so smoothly with the amount of slick he's producing. Tom's hands go to his waist, stroking down to his hips and up again, guiding Harry as he moves up and down on his member. Noises escape the back of his throat like sighs or grunts as he watches Harry with shining eyes. Like he's hyper-focused and seeing into Harry's skin.

Harry wouldn't be surprised if he is; using his Sentinel eyesight and examining the sweat forming on Harry's chest, exploring the area around his nipples, so pink and hardened. The small fuzzy hair raised on his arms. A far off thought comes to Harry at that moment – A worry that this could be the moment Tom goes into a Zone.

Harry reaches out, strokes Tom's temples and slides his hands into his hair. Tom brings his face close so Harry can kiss it, pepper him all over with his lips. Using this contact as grounding, he murmurs soothingly and lets his empathy roll out and soak Tom like a gentle balm.

Tom closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, lets it out through his mouth and all through this they keep moving. A tiny frown knots between his eyebrows, like a discomfort. Instead he's close, Harry can feel it. Just like Tom can feel Harry building up to his release too. Harry's breath is short and sharp, he doesn't know how much longer he can take it. Tom feels so good.

The pace quickens, becomes harder and rougher. Tom groans and opens his eyes to look straight at Harry before devouring his mouth with his own. Harry's breathless and so, so close until –

He tips and a wave of pleasure crashes through him, letting out a shout that's captured by Tom's mouth. Harry's eyes are still tightly crushed closed when he follows the noise by another long moan. He keeps riding through it all until he can feel the moment Tom spills into him, gushing and filling him up with his scent.

Something Arthur will have one hell of a hard time getting out of the car later.

"Fuck," Harry gasps as he comes down from the high, eyes still closed, mouth open and sweaty face pressed against the headrest next to Tom's head.

"My thoughts exactly," the other responds, just as breathless.

A thoughtless smile and a hum from Harry, which he hides against the side of Tom's neck. Chest still heaving from their activities, Harry says, "I s'pose now's a good time to actually get some clothes on if we want to be in London before midnight."

Tom gives him a final, lingering and strangely fond kiss before they pull apart. Once they've extracted themselves from one another and Tom can bare to keep his hands to himself for more than five seconds, they change into their clothes. Which consist of jeans, hoodies and t-shirts. Harry's got a cap on under his hood in hopes it might cover the iconic nest of raven hair. Tom's taken the liberty of divesting him of his glasses as well. Harry blinks blurrily at the image of someone who looks a lot like Tom but can't possibly be the same man from a minute ago.

The man before him wears a simple white v-neck and black beanie. Harry watches as he slides on a pair of reflective aviators. He pulls out a pack of gum from a small pocket of the backpack and pops a piece from the blister pack into his mouth. Harry stares at the sight in ill-concealed consternation.

"This is all part of the disguise is it?" Harry asks.

"Of course."

Harry goes to grab the pack of gum but it's quickly snatched away. Before Harry can open his mouth to protest, Tom swoops in and plants a firm kiss on his lips. Harry's noise of surprise turns to one of pleasure as his jaw is cupped in a firm grip and the kiss is deepened.

Harry begins to squirm in outrage when a hot tongue is suddenly pushing a foreign object into his mouth. Tom pulls away just as Harry starts to worry he might choke from the surprise gift.

"Arsehole!" Harry splutters once his mouth is free.

Tom is unashamed and sends him a cheeky grin – actually _grins_ at Harry. Flicking down the sunglasses perched on his head, Tom exits the car.

Harry feels slightly dazed when he follows, chewing absently on his newly acquired piece of gum. Though when he's out of the car, he has to snort when he sees the other man's wardrobe choice again.

Tom glances over at him.

"You look ridiculous," Harry explains.

"Shut it," Tom grunts and slams the car door closed, glare lingering on Harry as they walk up to the station. In big block letters, his shirt announces the words 'Wake me up when it's Friday'. But Tom somehow manages to make it work. His demeanor shifts into something else, his gait more languid and cocky. Harry, meanwhile, is quite literally blind without his glasses. Tom has to tug on his elbow at one point to keep him from knocking into a nearby bin.

They manage to pass through the station with only a small amount of trouble. They duck their heads down and avoid any obvious eye contact. But with Harry's glasses neatly tucked into Tom's backpack, he finds himself bumping into more than a few people and one or two rubbish bins along the way. This kind of attention is less than ideal in Tom's opinion, who says as much, only to receive a simple but particularly crude gesture in response.

Once on the train, they manage to shuffle down the aisle to their seats without further incident. There's hardly even a turn of a head. Harry wonders if Tom's covered him in his smell to help fend off any interested Sentinels. He's not quite sure how he feels about this. But then again, he's long past caring. At the moment, all Harry wants is to get out of this alive. To see his friends again, and to hopefully find some semblance of normalcy for the future. No more running. No more guns. No more blood on his hands.

"Oi, let's get a move on, yeah?"

Harry startles when the foreign voice comes out of Tom's handsome mouth. He's addressing a Sentinel woman in a thick cockney accent. Said woman is taking her time settling herself in her seat, and therefore clogging up the aisle. Harry isn't oblivious to the interested look she casts him, the one he's used to now: When a Sentinel picks up a Guide's scent. Harry can feel Tom's body press up against him from behind, warm and solid. His arms come round Harry to rest on the headrests at his side, closing him in from behind like he's his property. Harry would find issue with this but finds he'd rather get the woman's attention off him again.

It works too well. Tom's little charade causes her prim face to pinch in offense. With just a twitch of annoyance at the rude young gentleman, she takes her seat. Casting one last disapproving glance at them, she faces away and Harry can relax.

The next thing Harry finds he's being hustled into the window seat while Tom takes the aisle. Harry throws an aside glance to see Tom holding himself differently. His posture is slouched, legs spread wide in his seat with head tilted back against the headrest in a way that suggests lazy arrogance.

Harry doesn't know what to think of this version of Tom so ignores it as he would some stranger.

Tom plucks up a newspaper left on the seat from a previous passenger and opens it, hiding them from view of the aisle.

Harry drums his fingers on the armrest while his leg takes up a bouncing rhythm.

He wishes they were at their destination already.

Tom's hand clamps down on Harry's arm and he jolts for the second time. (Must be all these nerves.) His hand is taken up and long fingers entwine with his. Harry feels his heart seize in a funny way and he swallows.

After a few minutes of waiting, the train finally begins to move and Harry looks out the window. An hour or so into the ride and Harry realizes he's dozing, and that Tom's hand still hasn't moved from his own the whole time. Harry doesn't see why he needs to mention or change this.

* * *

Tucked away in the back of the club, a platinum-haired Sentinel lounges in a leather wraparound seat. Private and comfortable, he enjoys the view of dancers on stage and warmth of company at his side. Scantily clad men and women saunter past with trays of liquor in their hands and patented smiles of seduction on their lips. The two large, mean looking men – paid handsomely by his father, of course – sit hidden in the booth next to his own. The young Beta male pressed to his side traces idle and stimulating circles on Draco's thigh. Draco's arm is slung round his shoulders as he admires the tantalizing amount of skin revealed from the unbuttoned shirt.

After three years of patronage, people round here know Draco and how he pays exceptionally well for good service. This one in particular has dark hair and light eyes. Draco contemplates giving the man a 'treat' in his apartment later tonight, or get him to perform a quick blowjob in the car outside before sending him off with a little packet of white he can enjoy with his friends for the rest of the night. Draco's eyes slide over to a woman on stage, moving her body in a tantalizing way and casting just the right amount of looks over her shoulder to make Draco believe it's a private show. Another woman comes up to the table and leans down to hand him his drinks. She smiles prettily and Draco catches the whiff of her perfume – A musky sweet fragrance meant to resemble an Omega.

The smile Draco gives her in return is slightly bitter. He knows better now, knows exactly what a real Omega smells like and wishes he could have realized it sooner and seized the opportunity. How could he have missed it? Harry Potter, an omega Guide. He could be head of the Death Eaters by now, or have a prominent role in Basilisk tower at the very least. People would send him envious looks, wondering how Draco Malfoy managed to snag an Omega for a bondmate. They would've worshipped him.

Draco takes a large swig of his whiskey, mourning the lost potential of what could have been.

The Guide is lovely though and Draco doesn't mind when she slides onto his lap after placing down their drinks, hooded eyes sultry and heavy with false lashes. If he extends a bit, the sweet perfume she uses to add to the illusion of being slightly Omega is tantalizing at best. He can always play into the illusion. Draco isn't new to the idea of role play when it came to his desires. But now he knew what a true Omega Guide smells like, up close, so close he can almost _taste it_ – no, this woman is nothing close. Just another Guide bitch in cheap cologne. With a tilt of his head to the side, Draco broadcasts his disinterest and she slips off his lap to continue her rounds.

Draco lets his eyes wander again and lifts his whiskey glass to his lips. Flashes of faces appear in and out of the spotlights – Some hungry, some depressed, most lustful or debauched. All desperate in some degree, and filthy rich. You had to be if you were in this place. Which is why Draco preferred it over any other. Though money never really changed a person's vices. Only put a layer of falsity over it, disguising it. It's the polite thing to do, of course. People like him never do these kind of things openly.

"Enjoying ourselves tonight?"

Draco threw one of his charming Malfoy smiles up at the Madame. She could always sense an unhappy customer, and Draco could admire that. It's one of the many qualities which still had her owning the place at the ripe age of sixty after all.

"I must not be feeling well, you know how it is sometimes," Draco replies with a casual sip of his glass. She smiles understandingly.

"Of course." She gives him a lingering, considering look. "Maybe you'd like me to arrange something more… special?"

"Not tonight," Draco says with a dismissive wave. "More in the mood for another drink though."

She inclines her head – "Right away." – before sauntering off into the dim flashing club.

Draco's eyes drift over the scene once more. This time his eyes catch on something – a pale face gleaming from a shadowy corner on the other side of the stage. His heart stops before elevating to a pounding rhythm with excitement. Draco must be seeing things, because sitting there – watching everything as casually as if he belongs in a place like this – is Harry _bloody_ Potter.

Draco would suspect the drinks but knows that god-awful hair too well. He almost laughs to himself. Did the idiot seriously think taking off his glasses was a good idea for a 'disguise'? Either way, Potter's about to be sorely mistaken. Those horridly green things he calls his eyes are a beacon to any competent Sentinel with working eyesight.

God, his father will be so pleased. Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and CEO darling, hands in _Harry fucking Potter_ to Voldemort. He'll finally be taken seriously. Might even have a managing position of a D.E. unit in Basilisk tower. Draco's positively giddy at the thought of himself ordering them about. How they'll all have to listen and do what he says.

Oh, this night is turning out to be better than Draco ever planned.

Harry looks nervous. Shifty. His eyes stray everywhere except across the stage. Is he waiting for someone? Draco sees him get up and shuffle his way to the bathrooms. There's no time to think about it. Draco shoves out of his seat and trails after him.

He follows the Guide's scent all the way to one of the stalls – honestly, did he not even think to cover up that _smell_ even? He pushes the door open to find Harry standing there –

Waiting.

Draco blanches. He hardly has time to think before the Guide is crowding against him, forcing him back until his spine comes into contact with the sink edge.

"Potter!"

Harry's hand flies to cover Draco's mouth as he shoves him up against the sink. Draco would snarl at the sheer audacity of the Guide if the smell and heat of him this close wasn't clearly befuddling his brain.

"Malfoy, listen. I need your help," Harry whispers. Though muffled by the hand, Draco barks out a laugh.

"Seriously, Malfoy. You're the only one who can help me," Harry pleads. Draco narrows his eyes and rips Harry's hand away from his mouth.

"That's a laugh, Potter. I suppose being on the run with that psychopathic defector wasn't all it was cracked up to be?"

A muscle in Harry's jaw flexes. "He wasn't looking and I got away. I think he's still looking for me," he answers. "Look, Malfoy, he's not going to stop. You need to – "

"Are you mad?" Draco cuts him off with a sneer. "Have your heats finally gotten to your stupid head or something? It's a wonder no one's caught you yet. You're about as idiotic as any bitch in – "

"Shut it, Malfoy!" Harry hisses before he catches himself and winces.

Draco's eyes narrow as he watches the fight visibly drain from Harry. "Honestly, Potter. Did you really expect I wouldn't hand you in?" He pushes against Harry, a smirk on his lips. "You must really be gagging for it if you came to me." He smirks and lets his hand firmly cup Harry through his trousers. Harry's breath hitches in surprise and Draco grins as the other man's fingers dig into his arms, unable to shove them away or not wanting to. "I bet you'd fuck any Sentinel willing to give you the time, isn't it. I know you Omegas… You're all the same."

Harry's nostrils flare but he remains silent. His eyes close and Draco thinks he's finally got him. Harry looks a lot more comfortable with the situation when he glances up at Draco again. He even has this little smile when he presses near to whisper, "You're right." His voice is honey-sweet. "Oh God, Draco. I just needed some big strong Sentinel cock inside me. I hope you'll give it to me before you hand me in. You haven't called anyone yet, have you?" When he pulls back, green eyes plead with Draco who almost gets roped in by it. His lower half is certainly convinced and stands to painful, rigid attention. Draco lets go of Harry to slide out from under him. He's pleased to note Harry seems disappointed, frustrated even.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks.

"Where's your little traitor friend, Potter?"

"What?"

Draco shoots him a glare before he marches over to the stalls and starts banging open the doors. "Is he here? Is he with you?" Draco asks.

"I told you, Malfoy. He's not here. I got away."

Draco stops at the last empty stall and spins to eye the other man while openly projecting his distrust. Harry rolls his eyes and steps closer. Christ, his smell was intoxicating this close, and hard to resist. The presence gently washes against his walls, begging for entrance. To help soothe and ground him, promising everything and anything.

Harry's wiry but strong, slender body presses so tightly against him.

"I want to be with someone who can protect me. You can do that, right?" Harry says in a low voice.

Draco's eyes are glued to his mouth. Without thinking, Draco's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and he hums. "Don't worry, Potter. I'll make sure we aren't disturbed," he murmurs and leans in to capture that mouth with his own and oh, god, yes. The taste really is as sweet as the smell.

Harry's frozen in place and holds rigid against him but Draco doesn't mind. He keeps savouring that beautiful taste until he pulls back and let's his eyes trail down that beautiful stretch of pale neck. Draco's eyes turn to slits when he catches sight of a reddish mark peeking out from the other's shirt. Wariness trickles back through the growing lust but it's difficult to concentrate when all his brain seems capable of is imagining having Harry. Maybe in one of the stalls or fucking him hard and fast against the sink while he watches the Guide scream himself hoarse in the mirror.

Draco's half-formed smile at the thought slips with the sight of Harry's own mischievous smirk. Suspicion finally cuts through Draco's lust like a knife.

"Good," Harry says, hands framing his face. "I don't want us to be interrupted."

In the next second, a tidal wave of senses crash into Draco's mind and he's drowning.

* * *

_**Five days earlier…** _

Draco Malfoy's their target for a while and Harry has the dubious honour of observing Tom's methods as he 'watches' him for a few days. After all, "Ninety percent of an assassination is preparation" is the mantra Tom keeps reminding Harry. Only this isn't another typical assignment. This is an abduction.

But it's complicated. Draco's surrounded by at least five security personnel at all times. His location hardly varies from the workplace, his overpriced townhouse, and the usual pub or nightclub. It isn't difficult to see the latter two options are going to be their best chance. The only hitch is how to get Draco alone, and to come quietly. Tom offers up a few of his own suggestions which Harry quickly shoots down with a withering look or an impatient reminder of what actually constituted as 'one pint away from murder' and 'possible severe mental trauma'.

This all leaves them with few options, and leads Harry to the conclusion that the best thing to do is to offer up his own unique services.

"No."

Harry barely gets the idea out before Tom flat out refuses.

"Come off it, Tom. You know it's our best bet," Harry says.

"Absolutely not," Tom deadpans. Harry makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat and runs a hand roughly through his hair. He's hardly had any sleep. They take shifts watching Draco, mostly from inside a rental car which also acts as the place where they take their meals and occasional fuck.

"Look, I'll just go up to Draco – " Harry starts when he's cut off again.

"Who will send for his guard dogs within a second of seeing you," Tom says. "And that's if they don't see or smell you first."

"I'll take suppressors," Harry counters and earns a growl of displeasure at the suggestion. Harry continues, "And yes, fine, Draco will probably raise the alarm. But I can stall him." Tom shoots him a dubious look. "I can! I'll just – I don't know. I'll put him in a Zone or something. I know how to do that now. My smell might even make him hold off, who knows?"

Tom's jaw clenches but he isn't arguing. Harry sees this as a good sign and keeps talking.

"And you forget I actually know Malfoy. If he's the first one who finds me, he'll want to savour the moment and probably ring daddy to tell him how he's found his boss' most prized possession."

"You're going to seduce him," Tom says slowly, voice low.

Harry rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head. "Er – yeah. I s'pose you could call it that."

"You're terrible at seduction."

Harry shoots Tom a flat look. "Something seemed to work on you, didn't it?"

Tom shakes his head but again says nothing. Harry sighs and hesitantly closes the gap between them to put a hand on Tom's shoulder. He starts rubbing it in what he hopes is a soothing manner, letting some of his empathy roll off him.

"You know it's our best chance, right?"

Tom hums and turns round. Harry's hand drops but the other reaches out to catch it in his own. A thumb rubs circles into the back of Harry's hand before Tom leans close, stealing a quick kiss which leads into another, more yearning one. A pleased noise escapes Harry's mouth and he deepens the kiss, moving his lips against Tom's like he's been doing it for years and still can't get enough. When they briefly part for air, Tom murmurs against his lips, "I'm going to teach you how to fight first."

Harry sighs. "If it makes you comfortable with the plan, I'll endure another one of your morbid lessons on how to effectively kill another man."

Harry feels a small smile against his lips the next time Tom leans in for a kiss, and he gladly returns it with one of his own.

* * *

They begin preparations. Tom takes Harry to another 'safe house' – A lower floor flat off a main street. Grottier than their previous hideouts but equipped with a functioning quiet room for Sentinels. Harry eyes the bars on the window when they walk down the steps to the peeling paint of the front door.

"This is even less glamorous than the last one," Harry mutters once they're inside.

"We'll bring Malfoy here tonight, get the information we need, and leave in the morning."

Harry can't argue with that plan. The quicker they can get all this over with, the better.

"Right, then I'm taking a shower first."

Tom ends up joining him. Harry doesn't think he would've been able to stop him even if he wanted to, because once they've started touching each other they can't stop. A quick rinse under the showerhead and Tom's pulling Harry out of the dingy little bathroom and into the bedroom. The bed squeaks loudly when Harry's shoved down on it.

"I thought you were going to teach me how to fight?" Harry says breathlessly.

Tom looms over him, pushing his legs apart so he can fit between them. "I am."

Tom presses a surprisingly gentle kiss to Harry's temple before trailing his lips down to his jaw. "These are good for a knockout punch," he comments. "Miss and you'll break your hand on their skull."

Harry bobs his head and swallows deeply before the other man moves on to kiss the tip of his nose and eyelids.

"Incapacitate a Sentinel's senses… and a good distraction."

Teeth trail down Harry's neck and he arches it to expose more. Tom licks and nips before he pulls back just enough to whisper hot words against his skin: "Disrupt breathing, talking, or spinal cord."

Harry's heart pounds in his throat, limbs squirming on the bed. This lesson is turning out to be more torturous than imagined but he doesn't dare interrupt now.

The 'V' where Harry's ribs end is the next target. Tom suckles at the sensitive skin there, making Harry scrunch his eyes and part his lips on a sigh.

"Hard to hit but very effective," Tom says.

Harry whines and Tom tuts, pinning his arms down at his sides. "Pay very close attention. You're not allowed to touch yourself until I say so."

"Oh, God," Harry breathes but diligently stops struggling.

Wide hands stroke down Harry's side, over his hips and thighs to finally hook under his knees.

"Throw your opponent off balance and permanently disable them."

Tom hoists his knees up to fully expose Harry, humming in pleasure at the sight. His hand wanders over the inner thigh, stroking there for a bit.

"Pressure points. Can buy you enough time to hit a better area."

Harry's practically quivering now and very close to begging.

"Please, Tom."

Too late.

"I need you. I need you so much right now."

Tom hushes him softly. "You've not finished your lesson yet."

There's a choked breath when Tom's hand cups Harry, fondling and gripping him at the base before leaning in and licking a long stripe up to the head of his penis. Harry cries out and Tom pulls back with a smirk. "I don't think you need me to tell you how this area can affect someone."

Harry's head jerks from left to right. "I get it. I get it, Tom, _please_ – " he babbles when he's suddenly cut off by his own sharp intake of air. Tom's gone down on him again, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his testicles, sucking at the head of his leaking cock and moving his hand over the shaft ever so slightly. It's over far too soon. The other man pulls back and all Harry can hear is the command:

"Onto your stomach. I'm not done."

Without a second thought, Harry flips over and bends his knees slightly to present himself more to Tom. A large hand places itself on his arse, squeezes and deals a light slap to the flesh there before spreading him further apart.

"God, look at you. Fucking perfect," Tom murmurs before lining himself up and pushing the head of his cock into Harry's entrance. Harry welcomes it, yearns to be filled up completely. Like it's all he's been waiting for his whole life.

Suddenly Harry's arms are yanked back behind him so his face presses into the pillow. Tom leans over to hiss in his ear as fingers dig into the soft flesh of the inside of his elbow. "Right here, Harry. I can disable your arm if I wanted to," he pants and starts pounding into Harry with hard, rough strokes. "Remember that. Remember how easily I can break you."

Tom abruptly lets go of his arm to wrap his hands round Harry's waist, thumbs gently pushing into the flesh on his back. Harry makes a keening noise. "Kidneys," is all Tom says.

Then words and all thought are lost for a moment as they revel in the pleasure of skin against skin. Of the sweet burn and tight pull between their bodies that vibrate along with the bond singing between them. When Tom's hips begin to slow and Harry can feel sweat dripping from his body onto his, a hand places itself right in the centre of his back and against his spine. Harry feels like an electric live-wire; every touch going straight through him and sending sparks firing through his veins.

"The liver. Immediate pain, dizziness…" Tom grunts before forcing out the last words: "…and loss of breath."

Harry utters a soft sigh when he feels the liquid heat pour into him and lets out his own pleasure onto the sheets with a strangled cry.

Tom's arms wrap around him and they hold each other through the euphoria. Harry can still feel little movements of his hips rocking into him and it feels good, it feels so nice. To have so much of Tom inside of him. Harry doesn't know why anyone wouldn't want this, or why he never did. He'd been so wrong.

* * *

Tom drives the car round the back entrance of the club. Watching the younger Malfoy for a week has truly been as dull as Harry worried it might be. Although their time together did have its good moments. For the umpteenth time, Harry's mind goes back to the memory from earlier that day, playing it over and over in his head. He shudders at the recollection of that hot tongue and mouth, those hands, the slide of skin…

"Focus."

Harry blushes from his neck to his ears and a smirk plays round the corners of Tom's mouth. "You'd make an abysmal hit man," Tom says.

Harry takes a vindictive bite out of a chocolate bar he'd stashed in the compartment for emergencies. "Good."

Tom throws him a half-hearted glare before focusing back on their target.

"He's going in," Tom says.

They watch Malfoy enter the club, a fancy joint named 'The Common Room'. From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Tom pocket a gun before he readies himself to get out of the car. Worry niggles at Harry.

"I really think it'd be less of a scene to take Malfoy without a gun, don't you think?" Harry counters. "Besides, they know your face too well and they'd never let a Sentinel, least of all an _Alpha_ , anywhere near him."

Tom digs into his coat pocket and shakes the pill bottle of Sentinel suppressants.

"I've been doing this for years, Harry. I know what I'm doing."

"I'm sure you do, Tom, but don't you think there's a time and place to switch it up a bit?"

Harry leans in and cups Tom's jaw before kissing him, satisfied that they're both a little breathless when they part. Harry's exit from the car is still halted when Tom holds onto his wrist. Harry looks back, about to argue when Tom says, "I'm going in with you. No arguments."

Harry smiles. "Afraid I might feel promiscuous?"

Tom's face becomes guarded and Harry feels a trickle of an unnamed emotion through the bond. But there's nothing but a smirk on the other man's face when he replies, "Only that you might have a death wish."

Harry doesn't have time to remind him that it's _his_ bite on his neck so they both end up going into the club.

They wait in the shadows of the bar, Tom stalking around a bit with his hawk-like gaze and Harry trying desperately to blend in as much as he can. No one's eyes are on him though. They're all directed to the men and women on stage or serving the customers their drinks. Some even have their own private 'entertainment' on their laps. Tom sidles up to Harry and whispers. "There. In the corner."

Harry swallows. "I see him."

The platinum blond hair is never hard to miss in a crowd.

Harry takes a deep breath. "Right. No killing anyone while I'm gone, 'kay?"

This earns him a dark, rumbling chuckle in his ear.

"I think about killing everyone I meet," Tom admits with a nonchalant air. "It's as easy as breathing and I can't turn it off."

Harry doesn't know how to respond to that. It's jarring but sadly not surprising. He shoots a worried glance beside him and wonders how someone can function like that day in and day out. It's unfathomable to him.

Tom nudges Harry in the side. "Go. I'll promise to be good."

Harry highly doubts that but has no choice but to take his word for it. He might as well get it over with.

In the end it isn't hard to lure Malfoy into a Zone. All Harry needs to do is send a slight nudge through the other's shields and Draco practically throws open the doors. His head isn't even as bad as Harry thought it might be. He slides in with ease and coaxes Malfoy to turn up the volume on his senses before suggesting he focus on the pounding rhythm of the music in the club. A few minutes later, Harry stumbles out of the back exit and frowns at the two bodies Tom's dragging into the mouth of the alley.

Malfoy's body guards.

Harry stares as he stumbles under the weight of a Zoned out Draco Malfoy. "Please don't tell me – !" he starts when Tom rolls his eyes.

"They aren't dead," Comes the reply and Tom holds up a syringe which Harry chooses not to question. With a sigh, Harry stumbles again and curses when the blond lurches out of his grasp to collapse onto the pavement in an ungraceful heap. Tom raises a brow down at the listless young CEO heir.

Harry hurries to try and get the man up but is reminded again of how heavy he actually is. "Christ – Please step in and help at your own convenience!"

Tom's lip curls in disdain but bends to help lug the blond Sentinel up off the ground. Though he's far from gentle when he throws him into the back seat of their hired rental.

When they get back to the flat, Tom hauls Draco's body into a chair in the quiet room designed to proof Sentinels against all outside input. After he ties him to that chair with rope, Harry attempts to rouse Draco by guiding him. This constitutes the use of low murmuring and gentle coaxing with hands against skin. Pale lashes flutter and grey eyes open.

From his peripheral vision, Harry catches something black and ominous. He turns to Tom at the same moment Draco gathers enough situational awareness to understand there is a gun pointing straight at him.

"For God's sake, Tom," Harry hisses through his teeth.

Tom's gaze on the other Sentinel is unwavering, the hold on his gun steady. "Draco Malfoy," he says lowly. "I'm sure you're aware of who I am?"

Draco swallows, eyes wide and face pale. He bobs his head once.

"And do you know what I want?"

Draco slowly moves his head from left to right; 'No'.

"I want access to Basilisk tower and that means codes for the labs."

Uncertainty and fear pour off the blonde Sentinel and Harry physically steps back in an attempt to distance himself from it. Draco wets his lips and stammers, "I – I can't. I don't know the codes, you have to believe me, I swear – !"

The rest of his sentence is cut off by the butt of Tom's gun colliding with his nose. Harry flinches as a curse flies from Draco's mouth. The sight of crimson pouring down his chin onto his crisp white dress shirt has Harry's mouth pressing into a grim line.

He can't let Tom do this. What has he become if he lets this go too far?

"I'm not a patient man, Draco, you know that. Your daddy knows that," Tom spits. "So tell me what I want to know and I won't have to ask Harry to leave the room so I can deal with you myself."

Harry's hands ball into tight fists at his sides. The fear coming from Draco now is pungent and makes Harry's eyes squint and water. But he can still see it when the grey eyes flick to him, scared and pleading.

"Don't look at him!" Tom snaps. "He won't help you."

Harry's jaw hurts from clenching it so hard. God, he can't watch this. He has to stop this.

Draco lets out a dry sob. "I told you already! I don't have that kind of access! Only my father knows anything about codes for the labs. I swear it, oh God, I swear…!"

The skin around Tom's eyes tauten before he lowers the gun. He shifts his stance slightly. Harry recognizes this as Tom becoming restless. Cagey.

"That's not possible," Tom murmurs under his breath. "The information was clear…"

"It was probably just wrong information, Tom," Harry suggests.

Tom whirls round, his face contorted with sudden fury. "Stop defending him!" he hisses.

Harry flinches involuntarily and this seems to displease Tom even more.

"I'm not _defending_ him," Harry tries to explain. "I'm saying there might be something faulty with the intelligence you gathered!"

Tom grits his teeth and turns back to Draco. Harry doesn't like the look in his eyes.

"No, there's nothing wrong with the information," Tom says. "We're just dealing with a very talented liar, aren't we Draco? You'd better leave now, Harry. I'm afraid what's about to happen won't be to your taste."

"Tom, _stop_ ," Harry says, and steps forward to try and pull his bondmate away but is quickly reminded of how he's no physical match for the assassin when the hands that scramble at Tom's shoulders are simply shrugged away.

Draco's eyes are wide and fearful again. He looks back and forth between the two of them.

"No! No, no, no, I swear I'm not lying! Please!" Draco cries when Tom pulls the familiar wire from his coat pocket. Harry's heart rate picks up in alarm.

"Tom!"

Without thinking, Harry launches himself into the space between them and throws his arms wide to form a physical barrier.

Tom stops dead in his stride. He stares, and for a split second something seems to short-circuit in his mind at what he sees before him.

In the next it roars back to life, his primal instincts on high.

With bruising force Tom wrenches Harry from Draco and bellows, "DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

Imprisoned in his arms, Harry stares at Tom. Everything's silent except for their heavy breaths. There's a pregnant pause where Harry tries to untangle himself from the roiling anger and fear that clog up every inch of space in the small, dingy room.

When he thinks he can think straight again, Harry tries to speak.

"Tom," Harry whispers.

Tom doesn't respond. He keeps staring at Draco like he's somehow going to break free from his restraints and whisk Harry away.

"Hey. Tom, look, it's alright. I'm not touching him, okay? No one's going to touch me but you. I promise."

Tom's eyes flicker to him but Harry sees he can't seem to bring himself under control for some reason. It's a territorial thing and listening to all the rubbish Draco said about him in the club, along with the fact Tom can probably still smell the other man on him and see the bruises on his lips... At the very least, it isn't helping matters.

From somewhere deep in his throat, Tom manages to grate out the word "Mine."

Harry swallows and frantically jerks his head. "Yes, Tom, yours. No one else's. Just you." Harry reaches out again and this time touches his cheek; a gentle, grounding touch. Tom's shoulders relax. He can only seem to ground out two more words.

"Upstairs. Now."

Harry doesn't dare glance back at Draco to find out what he thinks of all this. From the lack of emotion coming from his side of the room, he'd say Draco is experiencing shock.

"Yeah. Alright, let's go upstairs. Come on."

 

When they finally manage to separate themselves from the room and travel upstairs, Tom practically throws Harry into the shower with all his clothes on to be drenched in scalding water. Harry finds he can't complain. Can't say anything except let Tom wash the smell off him, kiss his lips until they're even more bruised and puffy and sore. Can only let him fuck him hard up against the shower wall, letting him fill him with his seed, his scent, again and again until Harry can hardly stand on his own two legs again without wincing.

Once all feels like it's finally right in their little world again, Harry lays down on the tiny bed and manages to fall asleep. Across from him a warm body and dark eyes watch him with a covetous gleam.

When Harry wakes, Tom's not there.

Harry's hand feels the other side of the bed, hoping to find it warm but it's not. His heart lurches in his throat and he's out of bed like a shot.

Oh God, no.

Harry races to shove on a pair of trousers before stumbling out the room.

Please no, no, no.

Harry flies down the stairs to come to a screeching halt at the door to the quiet room.

When he flings it open, Harry stares, panting, heart pounding, and eyes wild at a very much alive Draco Malfoy.

Both sentinels are there. They stare back at him with varying emotions, though the tick in Tom's jaw is the first thing Harry notices.

"Harry," Tom says warmly. "Draco here was just telling us what we wanted to know." He turns to look at Malfoy. "Very cooperative of him, don't you think?"

Harry swallows thickly. There's no doubt in his mind Tom did something. Said something.

"That's… good," Harry croaks and clears his throat.

Tom walks round the back of Malfoy's chair, eyes steady on the back of the blond head. "Yes, it is, isn't it?"

Harry's heart still feels like it's going to give out as Tom strolls back over to give him a small smile. Harry doesn't trust it at all as the other man cups his face, leans in, and kisses him gently once. "Don't be so afraid now, Harry," he says softly. "It's all taken care of, see? I took care of things just like I promised."

Harry bobs his head in response and watches Tom pass him to the door. Harry glances back at Draco. The other man's face is ashen and his expression carefully blank.

Harry follows Tom out of the room before closing the door behind him.

* * *

Tom is missing from the bed again the next morning. Harry doesn't worry about it just yet. He might be downstairs or in the room with Draco. The latter possibility makes Harry shiver and a worry niggle at him. He can't help it. Harry doesn't want any more deaths on his hands.

Unable to fight the uneasy feeling, Harry slips out of bed and it squeaks in protest.

When he gets to the room, Draco's alone but out of the chair and slumped against the wall instead. His pale head lifts sluggishly to rest against it as he surveys Harry. "Christ, you reek of him," he says, "And sex."

Harry's eyes narrow. "Yeah? You don't smell any sweeter."

Draco snorts and gives him a half-hearted sneer. There's an odd moment where Harry wants to ask him if he's seen Tom but doesn't want to give the bastard any ammunition.

It turns out Draco doesn't even need it – "Checking up on me? How sweet of you, Potter. I'll bet you were worried your boyfriend might've killed me when he came in this morning." Draco holds up his bound hands before they fall to his lap again. "Five star establishment you have here. Excellent service." He jerks his head at the bucket in the corner. Tom must have untied Draco and left it while Harry was asleep.

"Tell me, Potter, I'm curious. Do you really think the prick likes you?"

Harry rolls his eyes and turns to leave. Tom might be in the kitchen making them breakfast. But Draco calls out behind him: "My father always said he never had a heart! Business hazard, you know." Harry glances over his shoulder, hand on the door handle.

"There's something to say about being too good at your job."

"Shut it, Malfoy," Harry barks and slams the door closed. He shuffles into the little kitchen but Tom's nowhere to be found. Maybe he went out.

Harry inwardly grumbles that he could have left a note.

He makes himself toast and tea and eats it over the sink before looking back over at the door to the silent room. With a sigh, Harry pours another cup and pops another two slices in the toaster before padding over to open the room.

Draco's head jerks up and his shoulders relax when he spots Harry. His eyes catch the food and look starved. Harry places it on the floor in front of him before he turns to leave again.

Draco stops him.

"Hey, Potter," he says. "About before – I'm only warning you."

"I don't need it, thanks," Harry says.

"I'm serious," Draco says as he hungrily bites into the toast and swallows before continuing. "He was Voldemort's favourite for a reason. He's just like him. All he wants is power and if you don't think for a second he won't run right over you to get it, you're stupider than most omegas."

Harry grits his teeth and manages to hold back from launching himself at the other man. God knows he's been itching to do it since last night.

"Since you seem to know so much about Tom," Harry says. "How is it you think you're still alive right now, Malfoy? It sure as fuck wasn't his idea."

Draco stares and seems stuck on swallowing another mouthful of toast. Harry smiles a little smugly before he slips out of the room again. He goes to the landline in the kitchen and finds that the cord's been cut. Frowning, Harry runs upstairs and looks round for the duffle bag but it's gone. Harry tries to tell himself there's a reason for it all and goes back downstairs to open the front door.

It's locked. Harry pounds with his fists and throws his weight against it to no avail. Another circuit of the house reveals that all the windows are barred too.

Harry can't believe it. Tom's trapped him inside.

Where is he? Is he coming back?

Harry fingers his pocket and with a breath of relief finds the burner still there. Tom hadn't thought to search for one on him. He thinks about calling the number in there.

Harry glances at the door to the silent room again. What about Draco?

It's probably going to be the prat's only chance of staying alive.

Harry marches back into the room and finds Draco's finished his toast and is now sipping the last dregs of his tea. He raises a fair eyebrow at Harry. The look in his eyes this time is knowing.

"Something wrong, Potter?"

Harry's mouth tightens. "What do you know, Draco?"

The other man raises his bound hands in a defensive manner. "Absolutely nothing. You seem agitated."

"You thought I could control him, didn't you," Harry says with a dark sort of satisfaction. Draco doesn't answer and Harry utters a humourless laugh. "You didn't say what you knew about the codes at first because you actually thought I could stop him from killing you."

Draco shoots him a dark look but remains silent. Harry snorts.

"Typical of a sentinel. You know, you all think an omega will just be subservient and that we can bring even an Alpha to their knees. It's horseshit."

A nasty smile spreads across Draco's mouth.

Harry glared. "What?"

"Have you ever considered you might be wrong? That you might be bonded to a damaged psychopath whose own biology can't even tell him what to do?" Draco said with a grin. "For fucks' sake, he _kills people_ for a living. You've got to be a complete tit to think any sane person could just go out, kill people, and somehow how come home at the end of the day and lead a normal, happy life. Now that's horseshit, Potter, and even you must've managed to figure that out by now."

Harry couldn't form a response. His mind felt numbed and blank. His hand drifted down to feel the shape of the burner in his trouser pocket and hardly even realized that Draco was still talking.

"I'm surprised he didn't put you in a collar. You'd look good in a collar."

Harry's eyes snapped to the blonde who now wore a taunting expression on his pointy, bloodied face. Harry's chest began to rise and fall, breath coming hot and aggravated.

"I saw the pictures in the paper, you know. They were everywhere. I'll bet every sentinel, bonded or not, would've liked to fuck you in that collar. Imagining you on your knees, begging with that pretty omega mouth of yours. Arse up in the air, just waiting to be filled with some fat sentinel cock."

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall, expression turning to one of bliss that made Harry's skin crawl.

"You what the hell of it is? You still smell good, even with his stench on you."

Harry got up and threw his fist straight into Malfoy's right cheek.

He would let The Order clean him up later.


	18. The Weeping Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who left me such wonderful comments in the last chapter. I get frustrated with myself a lot of the time because I don’t know what to say in return. But please know I read them all and appreciate every single one. They are fuel for the soul. ❤

Tom said Snape is untrustworthy.

Harry can't help but appreciate his bondmate's ability to pick out the weed among the grass. The weed in person now stands before him in a room of the Order's headquarters.

Snape is a spy. Harry knows that now with certainty. Has seen him in Voldemort's layer. Yet he still can't wrap his head around who exactly Snape is loyal to in the end. Dumbledore seems to trust him, and Harry knows how strong a Guide the old man is. In any case, Harry refuses to talk to the Mute, and demands someone else questions him instead.

They send in a member called Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Getting out of the safe-house had been a low key and secretive operation in the end. A car came round and two Order members bundled Harry into the back of a black Range Rover. Meanwhile another pair escorted a bedraggled Draco into a second car behind him. Harry asked what would happen to him. The only reply was a 'held under surveillance for twenty-four hours after questioning'. Harry felt nervous. Would they let him go after that? Would he warn Voldemort? The urgency to get to Voldemort before he found out, and before Tom got to him, was growing.

Now Harry sat in a sparse room with a weak, too-milky cup of tea. He shivered as it reminded him of the medical room of the Ministry.

After an hour of questioning, Harry gave his statement on how Voldemort is killing off omegas. Of the illegal research and experimentation he was performing on Alphas. Kingsley seems to believe him for the most part. Though he adds that the information will have to sit tight and not go beyond the Order department for now.

Besides, Kinglsey lets on that he doesn't believe Fudge will be on his side without some hard proof. As the Ministry's known to have an important business investment with Voldemort's company. Which is why they've made a covert plan to stop Voldemort themselves. Harry agrees to the necessity of the plan, but says he needs to contact Tom first.

"But this Tom Riddle is a member of the D.E.," Kingsley says. His brow furrows in consternation as he tries to understand.

Harry bites his lower lip and tries to keep himself from sounding insane. "No, he's not. I mean – He was…" He tries to explain how the hired assassin helped him escape and kept him safe for all this time. But Harry can tell Kingsley doesn't believe him. He's too anxious about Tom and what he will do. He needs to get back to his mate.

Snape enters the room then and Harry stiffens. Kingsley sighs and leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the steel table. "Well, for now I think it's best we bring you up to see Dumbledore. He's head of the operation on Basilisk tower and Voldemort. Though this means you'll also have to remain here for a while after, in the event that we are successful. We need you as a witness. You'll be under protection, of course…"

Something lurches in Harry's stomach. God, what will Tom do when he finds out Harry is gone?

"No," Harry says, something fierce and immediate in his eyes. "You don't understand. You have to take me back to him."

Kingsley shares a look with Snape who raises a brow at the protest.

"Indeed, Mr Potter. And we will," Snape says.

Harry doesn't believe them.

The two Order members leave Harry in the room where he waits for at least fifteen more minutes. Time they do not have. Harry's hand makes a fist on the cool metal surface of the table. A moment later and the door opens again and Kingsley informs him he's finally free to leave the room. He claims Harry has some visitors.

Harry rises from the chair and leaves the cooling tea behind. Once he's out of the room, his eyes immediately alight on a ginger head of hair. Ron's sprawled in one of the seats further down the corridor. Beside him, a bushy head of hair reads a newspaper. A valve feels like it's released when Harry sees them, and he rushes over to greet his friends. Sensing the projected wave of emotion beforehand, the two heads look up. Ron is the first to get up and greet him, embracing him in a bone crushing hug with a broad grin. He looks tired. They both do. Harry assumes they must have taken the train as soon as they heard he was in London again. Harry feels a surge of gratitude.

"Fair warning, mate – 'Mione's not pleased," Ron mutters in his ear before he pulls away.

"Thanks," Harry says and means it when he's attacked by his other friend. Hermione gives him a particularly vicious hug. When she pulls away she says, "Just so you know, I don't agree with how you just left like that. But… I'm glad you're still alive."

"At least I left a note this time," Harry tries and gets a _thwak!_ from Hermione's rolled up newspaper. Harry cowers and adds, "At least it wasn't a week?" She gives him an even more heavy-handed swat and he relents.

"I'd stop talking right now if I were you," Ron laughs. Despite his abilities as a Guide, Harry can still see how their anxiety melts away. He feels another pang of guilt.

"I'm sorry."

Ron shrugs. "Just give us some warning next time, yeah?"

Hermione blows out a blustery, put-upon sigh. "As if there should even be a next time. You boys are too forgiving!"

She relents at the sight of their pathetic looks. Harry's given another side-ways squeeze before she says, "Come on. Let's go see Dumbledore."

There's a strength which infuses Harry now he's with his friends. Though the wound left by Tom's abrupt departure is still fresh. At least now Harry knows what his friends felt like. Then again, he didn't have their bite mark on his neck. Harry runs an absent hand over it while a forlorn feeling bubbles up inside him as he walks to the elevators.

Once they reach the floor of the Order of the Phoenix, they step out and find the old Guide himself standing there.

"Mr Potter," Dumbledore greets. He's wearing a silky navy blue pinstripe suit over a pastel pink shirt. While round his neck is a yellow tie with pink polka dots. Harry notices how it matches the little square of fabric peeking out from his breast pocket. Dumbledore regards him warmly but carefully. "Please come in to my office. I wish to discuss some things with you. Perhaps Mr Weasley and Miss Granger will give the tiramisu in the cafeteria a taste? I hear it's heavenly."

Hermione doesn't appear pleased and Ron looks like he expected as much. He tugs a reluctant Hermione away in the direction of the canteen.

Dumbledore graces Harry with an apologetic smile as they begin to walk back to his office. "I regret sending them away like this. But I believe this to be a rather delicate matter, seeing as you appear to now be… personally attached to our hired gun?"

Harry feels the air leave his lungs and his mouth dry up. He finds he can't meet Dumbledore's gaze.

A warm chuckle brings him back again. "Do not worry, Harry," Dumbledore says. "I did not bring this up to make you uncomfortable or to shame you. In fact, I am rather impressed you had not bonded earlier. He is certainly a… worthy mate."

Harry can't help blushing from root to tip as they step into Dumbledore's office. A loud squawk greets them from the brass cage in the corner.

"But I sense your choice of mate is not why you called me."

Harry strengthens his resolve and faces the other man directly. "No, it's not."

Dumbledore nods and offers him a lemon drop. Harry accepts. "Please, take a seat," he says.

Harry sits. "Look," he begins, and struggles to find the right words. "I know you think I'm some kind of weak, fragile little Omega. But I'm not."

"Oh, I'm well aware, Mr Potter," Dumbledore replies in a sombre tone. "In fact, I believe you to be one of the strongest Guides I've come across in my life time. Voldemort himself knows this, which is why he desires you so keenly."

Dumbstruck, Harry stares while Dumbledore holds the gaze, allowing his sincerity to show. Harry shifts in his seat, humbled and terrified all at once. "Um, alright then, so now what? What do you want from me?" he asks.

"Only to train you as efficiently as possible in such a short time frame, and to ensure your survival."

Suspicion comes back in full force. "For what, exactly?"

"So that you may help us in capturing Voldemort."

Tom's face flashes into Harry's mind then. As far as Harry knew, the only thing stopping him from killing anything and everything in his path was Harry. As much as that sounds ridiculous. But the faster they got this done, the more time Harry would have to get back to his bondmate. And potentially stop him from doing something stupid.

Harry leans forward in his seat. "When do we start?"

* * *

_**8 hours earlier…** _

He leaves Harry in the early morning, before the sun can filter in through the small, barred windows. They were in a lower-level apartment with small windows in the top half of the wall. This isn't what one would call a respectable neighbourhood.

Tom dresses quietly. He places several tubes of clay explosives inside the cheap black travel backpack. With a glance over his shoulder, Harry lies sprawled on his stomach. His limbs tangled in the sheets with his black hair messy and obscuring his face. Tom grips the edge of the door frame to keep himself from going back to bed. To slip in beside Harry and wrap himself around the Guide. It would be easy to let his scent infuse him, make him feel peaceful and secure. But Tom can't afford that now. He has a job to do. He always has a job to do, and everything else comes second.

Tom leaves through the front door, locking it behind him with a soft click. He can still hear Harry breathing softly inside. His heartbeat thudding with a familiar ease.

Only when it's late that night does he return. Already anticipating his mate's ire and prepared to beg for forgiveness. A concept wholly new to him, but with Harry it somehow doesn't make him feel any less of an Alpha Sentinel.

But when he nears the apartment, the heartbeat is missing. There's no soft breaths or familiar shuffle of movement. His sweet, musky smell is faint.

Harry's not in the house.

First thought – The Sentinel broke out of the room.

Tom's blood boils and he quickens his step. When he finds the front door unlocked, he freezes.

Second thought – Someone's taken him.

Tom slams into the apartment and calls out for his mate. He uses his senses to reach into every corner of the building. But even through the bond Tom already knows the worst to be true; Harry isn't here.

Different smells still linger in the air though. Of Sentinels and Guides. Three or four of them. Tom can see their footprints in the stained carpet leading from the room and out the front door.

Tom curses as something altogether unpleasant roils in the pit of his stomach. The tight twist to his mouth is the only indicator of the cruelty he'll unleash on anyone who crosses his path.

One thought remains, and only one: He must get Harry back.

With unfaltering steps, Tom marches to the door and reaches into his coat pocket. He retrieves another disposable cell as he hops into the rental.

The line picks up on the first ring and Tom speaks into the receiver without waiting to confirm who it is.

"I'm calling in my favour."

"So soon?" The voice on the other end replies.

"The schedule's been pushed forward."

* * *

"Snape! Have you gone completely mad?" Ron bellows at the same time Hermione hisses: "But he's a you know what - AND - not to mention a dee-ee-ay- "

"Look, I know," Harry tries in a placating tone. "It sounds fucking ridiculous. And trust me, I hate it just as much as you two but it's the best thing we have."

Hermione looks furious. "Letting you be bait is the best plan the top secret _Order of the Phoenix_ has? This is a complete joke. Is the entire world run by idiots!"

"Dumbledore would be sending you in there like some - like a -" Ron struggled to find the right words.

"Like a pig to slaughter!" Hermione offered and Ron gives a strong nod.

Harry's mouth twists unhappily, not too impressed with the whole idea either. "Listen, Tom's cooking up some kind of plan – or already has, I don't know, the bastard never tells me anything. But he will be going in there at some point to carry it out. I don't want Voldemort dead; I want him in prison. I want this all to stop. The Basilisk company, the D.E., and it's fucked up laboratory of Omega blood."

Besides, Harry's seen Tom in action and knows the hit man can handle himself. But against Voldemort and the rest of the D.E.? With no backup at all?

It's a chance Harry isn't willing to take. His faith in Tom's capabilities can only stretch so far…

The other two look mollified for the moment and Harry takes that as a near success.

"We're coming with you though," Ron says.

"You can tell Dumbledore we'll be on the surveillance team," Hermione adds with a vicious glint in her eye.

"Yeah, I want to be there when you call backup."

Harry grins though his mind fills with the possibilities of how it can all go wrong. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

Ron pulls off his headset, eyes glued to the array of screens in the cramped van. According to the team leader, Moody, it's proofed against sound and smell. So they're as incognito as possible while parked a few blocks down from Basilisk tower.

"He's going to die."

Hermione gives her bondmate a tight-lipped glare. He can feel it even when he buries his face in his hands.

"Dramatic as ever, Weasley," a voice scoffs from the other end of the van.

Ron jerks his head up and glares. He raises his hand and Dumbledore turns to him with a raised brow and amused twinkle in his eye. "Yes, Mr Weasley?"

"I've got a question," Ron says with a sour expression. "What's _he_ doing here?"

They all turn to look at Draco who rolls his eyes and leans back, arms folded over his chest. Appearing to all the world like he would rather be anywhere else.

Dumbledore gives a small smile. "Mr Malfoy has kindly offered to assist us in exchange for a clean break from his involvement in the case."

"In other words, they threatened me!" Draco spat back before falling silent again with an angry huff.

Ron and Hermione do not look impressed by the idea but they can't dwell on it for long. Not when their friend is about to need all the help he can get.

"They're going in."

A Guide announces this fact as the image of Harry walks up to the large glass doors on screen. Snape is by his side, hand on the middle of his back as if ready to stop him in case he makes a run for it.

Dumbledore turns to Moody who is decked from head to toe in black Kevlar. A radio strapped to his shoulder crackles with static. The van ahead of them holds a team of SCO19 personnel, ready for deployment at his say-so.

"Awaiting signal. Ready when you are, sir," Moody says.

The van goes silent as they wait, watch, and listen for either Harry or Snape's word.

Ron tries to focus his Sentinel senses on anything outside the van. Hoping to figure out what's going on but the outside world is completely blocked off. He looks to Hermione who seems to understand. She projects a pulse of comfort and empathy before they submit themselves to the agonizing wait.

On screen one, Snape and Harry disappear within the building. Screen two and three show the view from Harry and Snape's hidden cameras. Tucked away from sight on their clothing. They're both equipped with one of their own, while taped to their chest are microphones.

They watch for a while as they make their way through the enormous building.

"Is it supposed to be that empty?" Ron asks.

"No," Hermione answers. They look over to Dumbledore who sits still, watching the screens with a singular focus.

"I have faith that Harry will know what to do," Dumbledore says. "Though it will be far from easy, he understands the importance of the task ahead of him."

Both Ron and Hermione don't like that answer at all.

* * *

There's a glaring lack of people inside the building. In fact, there's not a single soul except for one behind the front desk. Harry wonders if this is normal or whether their visit is anticipated. In which case, the latter option does not bode well for them at all.

Snape begins to lead Harry past the front desk where the receptionist talks into a cellphone.

"So soon?" he asks, then realizes they intend to walk past and hangs up before blocking their path. Snape's step falters, not anticipating the interruption either. Harry's hit with a genuine unease which seeps from the man beside him. The receptionist (a Sentinel, Harry notes) gazes at them as if nothing is out of the ordinary. His look turns curious when he turns to Harry.

"Please let Voldemort know his Omega has arrived and is ready for delivery to him personally," Snape announces.

The secretary barley glances at Snape when he answers, "Yes, he knows."

Harry's heart feels like it's in his throat. The air feels thick and his mouth dry.

Snape goes still beside him. A single thread of dread starts to ebb from him but he attempts to play it off. It doesn't look like it works.

"Mr Voldemort's instructed me to check the both of you," the secretary says. "For security purposes, you understand."

Snape nods and Harry stiffens when the Sentinel's hands skim over his arms, legs, and torso. Harry holds his breath when they briefly pause over his chest and press down. Harry feels like his heart will stop at the tiny flicker of satisfaction on the secretary's face. He quickly finds the camera and plucks it from his jacket lapel. But then –

"Alright, you're clear."

Harry blinks and hardly believes what he's hearing.

When the secretary pats down Snape, he finds the microphone with cold efficiency and rips it off him. He holds it between thumb and forefinger, inspecting is closely. Harry can imagine he sees every detail from that close with his Sentinel eyes. The man smiles as he cups them in his palm.

"Oh, Mr Snape," he says in a pitying tone. Harry feels a spike of anxiety from the man beside him and knows this is going downhill fast. The secretary waves to two men who've suddenly appeared at the counter. They each grab one of them when the secretary says, "You may escort these two up to Mr Voldemort." Then he places the microphone and camera in one of the men's hands. "And tell him this was found on the Guide."

"Yes, Mr Nott."

* * *

The van is eerily silent until a woman at one of the monitors turns to Dumbledore. "Sir, there's an unidentified Sentinel entering the building from a staff entrance."

The old Guide moves to look over her shoulder at the screen. "Voldemort's?"

"It's not a confirmed D.E. member and seems to be carrying a class four weapon."

A crease forms on Dumbledore's brow. He closes his eyes and Hermione can feel an invisible wave of empathy wash over her and expand out from the van. Ron shivers under the weight of it and it's only a moment before the old Guide's eyes snap open again.

"It appears Harry's kidnapper has arrived."

Ron curses. "Tom?! What are we going to do?"

"We have to stop him!" Hermione says.

Dumbledore moves his head in a small negative gesture. "No, I don't believe he'll be any trouble for the operation. He can only aid it, if anything."

Hermione squirms with uncertainty but knows Tom would never let any harm come to Harry. If there was one thing she could trust about the killer, it was that he protected what was his.

They watch as a familiar face appears on Screen Two showing footage from Snape's camera.

A bald man stands in the middle of an immaculate and spacious office. He's dressed from head to toe in a charcoal suit and crimson tie. He smiles at Harry from off camera.

"Ahh, you've done well, Snape," Voldemort says. "And it's good to finally see one another again, Mr Potter."

The whole van seems to hold their breath in wait.

"Although," the Hybrid continues. "I would have preferred it to be without the eyes of the Order watching…"

Everyone watches in horror as he pulls a gun from his suit jacket and aims it straight at the camera on Snape's chest. Everyone feels the explosion when the trigger pulls and renders Screen Two static.

It takes a moment to recover from the shock, but Ron is the first to say anything.

"Can we go in now!" he yells.


	19. Hybrid's Oratorio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, people! Your reviews are precious and kind and make me smile; Thank you. :) And just a heads up: I haven't done a lot of re-drafting for these last chapters so there might be a few mistakes.

The crumpled form of Snape lies on the floor, eyes open and staring blankly up at the ceiling. The neat crimson hole in the centre of his chest drips blood which pools around him and seeps into the concrete. Harry has to tear his eyes away and try to keep from shaking as he faces Voldemort. The hybrid regards him with savage amusement in his cold eyes.

"You've proven yourself quite a capable Guide, Harry," he says. "Certainly more capable than anyone has expected, to be sure. Which is why, when I bond with you, I can only imagine the power that the both of us will be able to achieve. How phenomenal it will be. Are you not eager to find out?"

The Guide in question licks his lips, mouth feeling dry. "I've told you. I'm not bonding with you."

Voldemort inclines his head in slow acknowledgement. "I wonder why that is," he says. "But of course, there can only be one reason..." he drifts off and a malicious glint shines in his eyes. "Why, _Harry_."

Voldemort makes a move toward him and Harry's heart jumps. He tries to stand his ground when the hybrid stalks right up to within inches of his face.

"I think you're hiding something from me," Voldemort says. He leans in and Harry jerks backward. But then a heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder and he can't move. Voldemort inserts his face right into the space between Harry's shoulder and neck. His chest heaves with a deep inhale. Harry keeps himself very still as Voldemort's hand comes up to trace the mark on his neck. He uses a deceptively gentle finger. The hair on Harry's arms and neck stand up and Voldemort hums before he roughly shoves Harry away. Harry stumbles a few feet backward but catches himself before he can fall.

"Look, you're not going to bond with me so why don't you leave it and let me go," Harry says with as much force as he can muster. "Whatever plans you have aren't going to work. Tom won't let them - We know about the lab. We know how many omega Guides have died for your experiments."

Voldemort shoots him a dark look when he says that.

"What are you planning with the blood lab?" Harry continues in a more tentative manner. "You're using it for something, right? On yourself?"

Harry waits, hoping the other man will take the bait but all he gets in return is a laugh; a cold, low, horrible sound. "I think you already know the answer to that, Harry. Besides, if I told you everything it would spoil all the fun we're about to have."

Harry starts to think that Voldemort isn't all that concerned with being caught in a criminal plot. Instead his interest is looking to be making sure Harry suffers.

"What are you going to do to me?" Harry says in an unsteady voice.

Voldemort sends him another amused look before stepping forward. Harry can't help but flinch when a large hand creeps under the hem of his shirt and rips the microphone from his chest. Voldemort holds it up in a tight fist. "It seems my secretary forgot something – A pity. I'll have to get rid of him," he says, almost sounding remorseful. Almost. "But what I find more disappointing is the fact you think such simple, archaic technology would go undetected by me. Me, a Sentinel _and_ Guide. An _alpha_?" he spits and drops the microphone to the floor where it's ground underfoot by his shiny leather shoes.

Voldemort roughly grabs Harry by the throat and pushes him back. Harry stumbles while his hands scratch and scramble at the hold, trying to pry himself free. But the hand is like an iron shackle and won't let up. Harry's legs kick out wildly and he scours his mind for everything Tom taught him.

With as much force and precision as he can muster, Harry aims a kick to Voldemort's midsection. This only seems to irritate the other man and tighten his grip. He grins at the choked sounds that escape Harry's mouth. In one last attempt, the heel of Harry's foot aims lower this time. As soon as he connects, Voldemort makes a grunting noise and drops him. Harry collapses to the ground, gasping in desperate breaths. Voldemort is slightly hunched over and the look he sends Harry is filled with boiling fury.

With a lunge, Voldemort grabs the front of Harry's shirt and slams a fist into the side of his face. Harry's head whips to the right, pinpricks of pain flaring white hot across his cheek.

"Get up!" Voldemort barks, and when Harry doesn't, he drags the Guide up by his shirt to throw him into a chair. Harry's vision blurs though his glasses still rest on his face, skewed though they may be. He can hardly figure out what the other man is doing until he finds his hands held to the chair with cable ties. Harry yanks his arm about but it's no use.

Voldemort takes a step back and smooths a hand over his hairless head. His mouth gives a satisfied smirk as he fixes the rest of his rumpled suit.

"There. Now we can have a proper discussion," he says, and stops. Something distracts him and his face tilts up slightly. Closing his eyes, Voldemort takes a deep breath and cocks his head. A cruel smile curves his mouth and when his eyes open again, he turns an almost excited stare on Harry.

"Ah, Harry Potter. It seems we have company. A certain traitorous dog has come running back home. I think it only fitting that I should send someone to greet him, no?"

Harry's heart lurches in his chest as Voldemort strides over to his desk to press a button on his intercom. "Launch protocol 7, effective immediately," he orders. Harry has no doubt Tom will have his hands full with whoever Voldemort has sent off to go deal with him. Which leads Harry to the slow realization that the Order won't have an easier time of getting to him either. And Harry has no doubt he's going to need the backup soon. He's suddenly hit with the thought that he's stuck with a madman, and the reality is terrifying.

"Now, where were we?" Voldemort says, and seems to give the question some genuine consideration. He is quick to remember though. "Ah, yes. Punishment."

Voldemort smiles and it sends a shiver up Harry's spine. The hybrid opens a drawer and takes out what looks to be construction equipment. There's a screwdriver, a saw, hammer, nails, and finally a drill.

"Some of the men downstairs were kind enough to lend me their tools for the day," Voldemort informs him. "See, I anticipated a lot of work would need doing and it turns out I was right, wasn't I?"

Harry starts to tremble as Voldemort surveys his collection with some thought.

"You send a delightful thrill through me, Harry, my little spark – So quick too. Your smell just crackles through me…" He Inhales deeply before closing his eyes with a sigh. "Electric.

"And so elusive, like a flash in the night," he adds with a smile. "I should call you my little strike of lightning."

Harry screws his eyes shut, praying the Order will come soon. He searches for some small thread of comfort through the bond and hits a sheer animalistic rage pounding through on the other side.

 _I'm coming_ , it roars.

A sharp, stinging slap has his eyes snapping open again. Voldemort stands over him. "None of that now," he says and the sound of his shoes clip against the floor as he returns to his desk.

"I wonder what toy I should use first?"

He picks up the hack saw and examines the blade, pressing his thumb down until a bead of blood forms on his skin.

Voldemort hums with satisfaction. "This will do nicely, I should think." He turns to face Harry. "I find blades are so much more personal, wouldn't you agree?"

He walks over and grips the front of Harry's hair in a tight fist. Harry winces and tries to jerk his head out of the grip. Voldemort tuts, "Keep still for me. This might hurt."

He leans in and presses the blade against Harry's forehead before digging in. With small movements, he starts to carve and Harry cries out.

Voldemort raises his voice to be heard over his yells. "As it appears my little snake has marked you as his," he says, eyes briefly straying to the bite on Harry's neck. "I think it only appropriate I should leave my mark as well."

* * *

Nott's fingers drum a restless pattern on the glass table surface. At every minute interval, his eyes flick to the screen in front of him, wondering. It's only a matter of time until the camera and microphone are found, and he has to be scarce before it happens.

From camera eleven, Nott catches a figure carrying a black duffle sign in through a staff entrance. The ID which shows up on his other screen confirms it as Dolohov. No one ever thinks to cancel key cards after these poor dolts get sent off to take care of Tom and his omega Guide. Only to never return, or come back in body bags. He continues to watch as the figure on screen carefully drops the bag on the floor before walking away. Then he disappears down the corridor and toward the elevators.

A glance at his wristwatch and Nott estimates Tom will have five minutes before the boss cops on to his arrival. After that all hell will break loose and Nott knows better than to stick around for it.

Nott reaches over to switch off the security feed before he pushes back his chair. After gathering his coat and personal items, he sends off a text to Rosier.

_\- He's in. Drop off by first floor exit._

_\- Wait for further instruction._

* * *

Tom gets to the end of the corridor before the first wave of D.E. come at him from around the corner.

Retrieving the assault rifle from his back, Tom mows them down with a single, continuous blast. Bits of plaster and dust explode from the walls and litter the bodies on the ground. He walks over them and hears feet thundering toward him from three corridors down. Tom keeps his back to the wall and waits for them to turn the corner. Once they're near, he steps out and uses his last round on taking them down as well. He pushes the little button on the wall and waits before ducking into the elevator.

Tom manages to go ten floors before the eleventh floor button lights up. A foreign sensation courses through him like acid, stinging and sharp. He braces an arm on the wall and gasps.

Harry.

Fists balling, Tom keeps his eye on the floor number as the elevator rises up. There's the sound of boots on pavement outside. Of rubber and Velcro. Kevlar and metal. The Order have finally come to crash the party.

Which means Harry must be with Voldemort. And something has happened if they're only coming in now. Tom's certain they wouldn't blow their cover on his account. Not now that he's started to cause a little havoc.

Cold anger pierces through Tom like a knife. He makes a silent vow to tear apart the person in charge of letting Harry go near the monster upstairs. Alone.

When the lift begins to slow, Tom grits his teeth and punches out the ceiling flap before crawling out.

As soon as the lift comes to a stop, a wave of shots rain through the open doors until the group of D.E. realize it's empty. Tom takes the momentary confusion as his chance to fire off his own round of bullets through the hole. It isn't long until he's out of ammunition.

A few of them retreat behind the wall outside the elevator doors and waste no time in returning fire. Tom ducks away from the open flap where sparks fly as bullets connect with the metal. He unhooks a flash grenade from his belt and chucks it through the flap before rolling as far away as possible. When it goes off, the gunfire ceases almost immediately and Tom takes this as his opportunity to drop through into the lift.

With a good dose of stealth and urgency, Tom manoeuvres his way through the debris and wounded or dead bodies. He's almost at the end of the corridor when a small cylindrical object rolls across the floor. It's too late to turn back as it's already hissing out a thick green gas. He tugs the collar of his jacket over his mouth and nose and keeps going as his hand whips out the small firearm from his inside jacket. He was saving it for Voldemort but it looks like he has no choice but to ration his bullets now.

The gas must be working already. Tom's senses don't alert him to the shape which lunges at him through the smoke. Bellatrix looks crazed with her hair wild and flying about her face. A gas mask covers her mouth and nose, leaving her eyes open and ready for the threat. There's a dangerous glint in her eyes too as she slashes left and right with a blade. She pushes Tom back and forces him on the defensive.

Tom is almost feral with the need to get to his mate now. He can feel the agony of Harry through the bond.

He can't help but think this must be the weakness he was warned about. The weakness he so feared at the beginning of his work.

But even as it distracts and causes pain, it pushes him too. Vaults him through the ensuing fight with a mad, blind confidence. Tom feels like something rabid and fierce tears through him. Like a lightning storm or a hurricane. Some primal calling has sunk its claws into his very centre and won't allow him a retreat.

With a cold certainty, Tom realizes there is no going back. The thread connecting him to that messy haired Guide is too important to turn away from now.

* * *

Harry pulls frantically at the cable ties but only manages to chafe his skin red and raw. But when Voldemort stalks toward him with a hacksaw in hand, he has to at least try.

"You'll have to be nice and loud for me. I want him to feel it when you scream," Voldemort says with a wicked grin.

Breath coming in harsh pants, Harry screws his eyes shut and feels the walls of his shields. They're holding firm so far, and might be able to take a hit or two. It would buy him some time anyway.

The hybrid doesn't expect it when the surge of empathic force hits him and he crumples to his knees in pain. Hands clutch at his head as he tries to repel the foreign intrusion in his mind. Harry keeps pushing and pushing, tearing at the walls like paper and slashing madly.

It isn't long until the surprise wears off and Voldemort is pushing back. Harry fights him with as much strength as he can, slamming up his own shields and hoping they'll hold for a bit.

Voldemort pounds and rips at his shields and Harry cries out. It feels like nails were slowly being driven into his skull.

Through the pain he can feel Tom close. He uses that strength to push back again and it works. The slimy, cold presence is thrust out of his mind and when Harry opens his eyes, Voldemort is still on his knees. Anguish and rage radiate from his being, crushing Harry with the force of it. When Voldemort looks up, his eyes are crimson with blood pouring from the tear ducts.

"How?!" he screams.

Harry, panting and almost blacking out from the dizzying pain, says, "You're not a Guide. Even if you were, your emotions aren't real."

_They're weak._

The unspoken words might as well have been said aloud. Because Voldemort lurches up from the ground to charge at Harry who doesn't take as long this time to lash out in the only way he can.

He aims once more for Voldemort's head.

For a moment, Harry picks up on all the senses an alpha Sentinel experiences and thrusts them toward Voldemort in a wave. Harry crashes out of his mind again as Voldemort stumbles. The hybrid shakes his head, eyes unfocused and wandering slightly. Harry tugs at his restraints again when he spots the hacksaw on the ground by his feet. Sweat pours from his forehead as he uses his feet to pluck it up and drop it on his lap. He looks up from time to time to see Voldemort frowning, staggering toward Harry and then stopping as if confused. Harry surmises that he doesn't have much time before he's lucid again.

With considerable effort and agility, Harry shimmies the hacksaw on his lap until his fingers can grasp it. Once he has it in his palm, he maneuvers it to cut at the plastic. All the while he keeps his eyes on Voldemort. The hybrid still looks dazed and confused but Harry's heart kicks like a drum beat in his chest. Each second that passes is another second closer to losing his chance at escape.

The cable tie snaps and Harry rushes to free his other hand. Meanwhile Voldemort is staggering to his feet now. His eyes are on Harry, face pale with fury and cheeks stained with blood. Harry can't help but think he looks like something out of a nightmare.

It takes three tries until his other hand is free. Harry races around the desk and can hear Voldemort coming after him; Feet stomping across the concrete floor in his haste. Harry's at the door when his skull explodes with pain as it's slammed against the steel frame.

"Where do you think you're going?" Voldemort spits, fingers digging into Harry's scalp and wrenching his face to the side so he can look at him.

Harry grits his teeth and tries to throw the other man off but his arms are pinned behind him by a too strong hand. Harry cries out and feels an answering tug through the bond, desperate and frantic.

"That's right, Harry. Let him feel you. I want him to know exactly who will break his precious omega," Voldemort says, and leans in to hiss in his ear. "You're _mine_ now."

NO.

Harry's not sure where the overwhelming surge of ferocity comes from. But it allows him to thrust his leg back and connect with a knee which makes a sickening crack echo through the room.

Voldemort howls and the hold on Harry loosens. He jerks out of the other man's grasp and wrenches the door open. As soon as he's out the room, he can hear distant gunshots coming from the floor below. He races in the direction of the stairwell. Unsure of where he's going but hoping he'll come across Tom or The Order sometime soon.

Harry's gone three floors down when he comes to a dead stop. His eyes widen at the sight of bodies strewn on the steps and leaning lifeless against the railing. Holes litter the walls where there aren't whole chunks missing entirely.

The shadows of people come up from the stairs below and Harry gets ready to sprint for it again.

"Harry!"

Harry stops, recognizing the voice. It's Ron. Relief floods through Harry when he sees his two best friends standing on the stairs below.

"Blimey..." Ron says, staring at all the carnage. The two parties start picking their way through the battle ground to meet in the middle.

"What are you doing here?!" Harry asks at the same time Hermione gasps, "Oh, my God! Harry!" and wraps her arms around him.

"We thought you were dead!" Ron says, face ashen as he takes Harry in. "What happened? The camera cut off and then the microphone went static – !"

Harry shakes his head as Hermione extracts herself. "No time. Tom's here – "

"Yeah, we know. So's the Order."

"Christ," Harry runs a hands through his hair. "Where are they now? Do you know?"

Ron tilts his head and pauses for a moment. Years of familiarity let Harry know the other man's trying to sense something. Harry swallows and holds himself as still as he can. Hermione bites her bottom lip and watches her mate map what he can of the building.

"The Order are trying to get into Voldemort's office. I can't... I don't know where Tom is."

Harry closes his eyes with a shuddering breath. "He's inside."

"How do you know?"

"I just... I know."

"Well, come on, then. We have to get out of here. There's an ambulance waiting downstairs already."

Harry's torn. He can't leave Tom alone. Not with _him_.


	20. Bondmate Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! I was going to post this the other night because I wanted something nice to look forward to after my surgery in the morning. (But this was before I came to the quick realization it was only doubling my anxiety lol so here we are.) Another short chapter but I hope you guys will like it! :) There's a few things you'll all have to forgive (or at least try to overlook): The most obvious being the blatant disregard for proper medical/police procedure when a wanted criminal is, well… You'll see.

Bella's always been eager to fight. Isn't patient enough like Tom who prefers to hang back and assess, calculate, and prepare as best he can. This caution, he's found, gives him an advantage. There's nothing at stake in this for her. She won't hold back; Doesn't care about the consequences beyond whether or not something will displease Voldemort. Her aim is to kill, if necessary. For Tom, it's to get to Harry at any cost. Bellatrix, on the other hand, is more concerned with making sure that doesn't happen.

Neither are going to fight fair. There's hair pulling, wound kicking, and use of whatever weapon or tool they can use on the other to weaken. Bellatrix's been eager to do this for a long time, and now that the proverbial leash is off, she's not going to hold back. Tom has to admit he's been itching for this too. To finally wipe that manic grin off her face.

The sense duller is effective and will last for about two minutes. More than enough time for her to use the advantage to kill him. She rips off the mask as soon as the spray disperses. Bella emerges from the smoke – or rather, her knife does. She's not using her gun, as predicted. She likes to get personal. Which works, as Tom would prefer to save the ammunition for bigger fish. But he can't take the chance of doubling back to try and find a wounded D.E. to get another weapon off them. Bella slashes wildly and Tom dodges as much as he can, but finds he's unable to effectively cover his nose and mouth at the same time. He will have to face her as nothing more than a Mute. It's a dirty trick but this fight was never going to be clean.

Tom attempts a quick exit from the fight when the chance presents itself. Typically, he never avoids confrontation. But he needs to get to Harry as quickly as possible, and with the least amount of damage done to himself.

He's also quick to discover that the possibility of escape is nil.

Tom manages to capture the wrist wielding the knife. But then a knee thrusts toward his solar plexus - which he effectively blocks with his forearm. He twists the arm in his grasp, hoping to get the hand to release the knife. But a leg comes swinging at his head and he has to lunge back. He backs up even farther as she advances. He needs to wait for the right opportunity to get the upper hand now. It shows itself when she goes to reach for her other knives. He advances in a flash of movement, overpowering her by locking her arms across her chest. She struggles and screeches. Her legs kick out and drag them both down to the ground. From there Tom pulls the limb in an unnatural way, trying to bend and break. Bella utters a choked off yell before he rolls away from the knife which slashes out at his face. Once he's far enough, Tom lifts himself to his feet again. They both stop and exchange an intense stare.

The sound of an armed unit can be heard marching up the stairwell. Bella wipes away blood from her mouth, smearing it over her chin while licking her lips. Tom squints from the cut above his brow which bleeds into his eye. Both pant heavily, caught in a sudden moment of uncertainty. If they're both found, neither one will win the fight. Voldemort will kill Harry and likely escape. Prison will be the only fate Bella and Tom face.

The voices drift closer and Tom makes a dash for the stairs which earns a mad cackle from Bellatrix who gives chase. She manages to catch up to him and they engage in another quick struggle. Tom aims once again for the leg he'd been working on and this time there's a satisfied sound as it breaks. A loud wail erupts from Bellatrix's mouth and Tom doesn't wait before he sprints for the stairs. With a single spare glance back, he catches a glimpse of the SC019 unit storming in on Bellatrix. She's trying to drag her mangled body across the floor to the window when they descend on her.

"Don't move! This is the police!"

Tom experiences a pang of regret that he didn't finished her off. But he doesn't spare a second glance back as he ascends to the eleventh floor.

Tom stalks in the direction of Voldemort's office. As soon as he nears the locked door, he ducks behind the wall and pulls out the bottle of suppressants. He empties a handful of them into his palms and stares for a split second before closing his eyes. He leans his head back and inhales the lingering scent of Harry. He can't hear or feel him in there anymore and deduces his mate must have gotten out safely. The thought brings with it pride and comfort as much as it brings regret. Tom pulls out his handgun and checks the magazine to find there's only three bullets left. He slams it back in and faces the door.

Tom punches in the code Draco gave him when he asked for the lab.

When Tom bursts into the room, Voldemort is leaning against a pillar by the large floor-to-ceiling windows. His back is to Tom who zeroes in on the hybrid's right leg to determine there's a problem with it. There's an overpowering smell of rust and Tom spots Snape's body lying in the corner in a pool of his own blood. Tom picks up the familiar scent of Harry's own as well and it ignites a fire inside his veins that might eat him alive if the pills weren't taking effect so quickly.

Voldemort sways, dangerously close to a zone Harry must have tried to put him in, and Tom takes that as his chance. He lifts his arm, aims, and fires off a shot which misses by an inch and cracks the window. Tom's vision is swimming. Voldemort's ducked to the side and swings up his gun to send off a return shot. Tom narrowly escapes it, drops to the ground and rolls behind the leather sofa. Two more shots and the window shatters entirely, letting in a gust of strong wind. He's run out of bullets now and waits for Voldemort to do the same. But the other man has noticed.

The gust of wind coming in from the broken windows bring with it a cold laugh. "It looks like you're out of bullets, Tom," Voldemort says. "The game is over. Sadly. It's been fun."

"I don't think it is, not yet," Tom replies, and tugs out his cell from his coat pocket. He presses send on a text; A number.

About five seconds later a loud explosion rumbles through the building. Objects rattle in the office and fall to the ground.

"That will be your precious lab," Tom explains.

There's a pregnant pause before Voldemort leaps out from his cover with a roar and shoots once, twice. The third shot hits its target and Tom stumbles, shocked, until he falls to his knees. His hand presses at the wet patch on his gut and there's a sharp spike of despair as Harry cries out through the bond. Tom tries to focus on Voldemort as he limps over the broken glass which crunches under his leather shoes. They stop in front of Tom's face before he feels them press down on his neck. He gasps for breath.

"When did I lose you?" Voldemort asks.

"Don't flatter yourself," Tom chokes out. "You never had me."

Tom takes out the curved blade from his sleeve and in one fluid movement, swipes at Voldemort's ankle, making a deep cut in the tendon. Voldemort drops to ground at once, screaming out and grasping at his heel. Tom scrambles on top of him to make a neat gash in his throat. Blood gurgles up out of Voldemort's mouth and Tom watches him choke on it. After a minute, Tom's breathing is too shallow and he clutches his chest. His heart feels like it's going to stop. He falls to the side on his back and pries Voldemort's gun from his fingers. It still has one bullet.

There's banging at the door. Must be the Order and the SCO19 unit trying to get in. They won't be able to, not without the code.

* * *

A thunderous blast causes the ground beneath their feet to shudder. The three of them grip the walls and the railing to steady themselves. Once it's stopped, they share a wide-eyed look with one another.

"The bloody hell was that?" Ron asks.

"It's an explosion," Hermione says. "Must be a bomb or something."

"Christ," Ron says, and turns to head back down the stairs. "Come on then, we've got to get out of here."

Harry watches his friends start to descend and bites down on his lower lip. Tom must be in Voldemort's office by now. Had he set off the bombs? How?

"Harry, come on."

Hermione and Ron look back at him, gazes imploring. Resigning himself, he takes a step down and –

Harry sucks in a sharp lungful of air and collapses to his knees, feeling like he's been punched in the gut. He gasps and chokes for air as a pain unlike any other spreads through his body, curling around his heart. He cries out, clutching at his side while unfocused eyes stare back at his friends. Their concerned voices are nothing more than a dull noise near him.

"...rry...! arry-!"

He hears the shout like he's underwater. But once he breaks the surface –

"HARRY! What's wrong?!"

"Tom," Harry chokes out. "I need to get to Tom! I have to – NOW!"

They scramble to lift him up and begin to make their way back up the stairs. When they arrive on the eleventh floor, there's a group of police gathered outside Voldemort's office trying to get in. The door is as thick as any in a bank and would need more sophisticated machinery than they had on hand. But that would take time to get, and Harry needs to get in _now_.

Just as despair begins to claw its way up Harry's throat, Moody waves to his men to stop what they're doing. He cups his hand to his ear while a frown creases his already heavily lined face.

Harry turns to his friend. "Ron, what – "

"He's got the code," Ron murmurs. They watch as Moody repeats a number back to one of the officers before he punches it in on the keypad.

Once the door is finally open, the police file in with Harry close behind.

"Harry, wait!" Hermione calls behind him.

As soon as Harry steps foot inside, he's greeted by the sight of Voldemort on the ground. Apparently bleeding to death while Tom leans against a pillar over him. Eyes flicker to Harry as he comes in before turning back on Tom.

Moody grabs him by his shoulder. "Mr Potter, you can't be in here," he says. "I'll have someone get you out safely."

Harry wrenches his arm away with a defiant, "No!" His eyes glued to Tom. His mate holds a gun in his hand while the police aim theirs, ordering him to put it down.

Tom spots Harry and takes a step away from the pillar when the police scream at him not to move. Tom freezes, eyes locked with Harry's own across the room. The bond between them thrums and yearns.

A movement out of the corner of Tom's eye has him looking down. Voldemort's body twitches and there's a gurgled gasp.

Tom stares and the yelling from the police become more frantic. Voldemort's hand slowly inches across his chest to the weapon concealed under his coat.

There isn't any time for thought when Tom takes aim and puts a bullet between Voldemort's eyes. Precision perfect, even as Tom feels himself bleeding to death.

He also feels the explosion of a bullet as it connects with his chest, along with Harry's desperate yell. Then he's on the ground beside his enemy with a SC019 unit surrounding him, shouting and yelling. All Tom can hear is the distant cry of his mate. Harry's there, kneeling beside him. Green eyes so brilliant and large this close.

Tom commits them to memory, the rivers and canyons of the iris, the inky darkness at its center. Like a night sky.

* * *

Harry has vague awareness of Voldemort's body being taken away.

Without seeming to notice getting there, Harry's found himself kneeling beside Tom. His fingers clutch his bondmate to his chest as his whole body shakes. He can hear the distant but familiar voice of Moody and Dumbledore. They order the police to stand down and vacate the room, leaving Harry and Tom alone.

Harry cups Tom's face and holds him close while desperate eyes seek and catalog his injuries. It's funny, Tom thinks, because he never thought anyone would shed tears over him in his whole life. But here he is, in the arms of his bondmate; Another thing he'd never have dreamt of having before. As far as death's concerned, Tom couldn't think of a better way to go than this. He stares back at Harry and takes in his features again.

A siege of emotion crashes through the bond. Tom winces to feel it come from his mate; Regretful that he's the cause of such despair. Then Harry's hands come up to reach for Tom's face but he gently pushes them away with a shake of his head. "No, my love," he murmurs.

A whirlwind of emotions flash across Harry's face. "I want to be with you..." he says in a broken voice, eyes glassy with unshed tears as he gazes down at Tom.

The Sentinel only continues to stroke a weak, bloodied thumb across Harry's hand. He's always been the bringer of death, surrounded himself with it. While Harry's always been there to prevent it, to show how beautiful and peaceful the opposite can be. Tom wants him to stay that way. Untainted.

Somehow, Harry understands the unspoken words.

Tom's gaze softens as he regards Harry with a familiar look of curiosity and fascination. As if anyone caring about his life was a wholly new experience for him.

"You are," Tom eventually replies, and his eyes travel past Harry's shoulder. "Get him out of here."

Harry realizes his friends are still there though he doesn't turn away from Tom. He doesn't know what Ron does but Tom seems appeased by it and lays his head back on the floor. His breathing is shallow and his eyes droop as they stare up at the ceiling.

Harry sniffs as he stares back at Tom. "I'm sorry I shot you."

The corners of Tom's eyes crinkle and his lips twitch. "I know."

Nothing is said for a long time after that. Tom's breathing becomes deeper and slower until Harry can't tell if there's air escaping anymore. A small, pathetic noise wrenches its way out of his throat and he clutches Tom's head, searching his face with desperate eyes.

Hermione's voice is gentle in the ensuing silence. "Harry…"

Harry jerks his shoulder out of her grasp, tears blurring his vision. His throat hurts. A part of his mind feels like it's slipping away no matter how hard he tries to grab hold of it. It's slipping, oh God, it's slipping –

Harry doesn't push the hands off his shoulders this time, and lets them envelop him. The form of Tom is now a blurred and obscured picture before him. A black silhouette arranged on the ground in a darkly graceful way. Harry can't help but think that if anyone could make death a beautiful form of art, it would be Tom.

It's quiet in the end. Anyone who isn't watching closely could easily miss it when Tom closes his eyes.

Harry doesn't. He's there for every excruciating second, and for every second after.

The pain is blistering and tears through him like a knife. Harry closes his eyes shut tight against the onslaught. Never before has he experienced something like it. He fears it will never end, and almost wishes for death to take him too.

But it doesn't. The torment ends and takes with it the pain, leaving a great gaping hole. So hideous and ugly that Harry almost wishes he could have the pain back instead. Anything would be better but the unbearable emptiness.

Two ministry members appear from the corner of his vision and crouch down on either side of Tom's body. They lay out a large bag on the ground beside him before lifting him up and placing him inside. They zip him up and the one chewing on a piece of gum glances at his wristwatch. He nods to the other dark skinned man and they both lift Tom up again to place him on a gurney. Harry can't take his eyes away from the sight of them taking him away.

When they leave Voldemort's office, a mass of people have all gathered outside. In the crowd, a familiar face lined with stern concern appears. Harry remembers her from the Order – McGonagall. She escorts the three down to ground level where an ambulance awaits. Harry sits on the back, head swimming and chest aching as his physical injuries get taken care of. He feels the weight of a stare on him and looks up to meet silver eyes.

Draco is standing a few feet away, talking to a Ministry official and his father.

Harry realizes at that moment Draco must have been the one to give Moody the code to Voldemort's office.

Harry projects a sincere feeling of gratitude. Draco dips his head before turning back to his father.

* * *

_**3 years later...** _

Harry shifts uneasily in his office chair while reading an old newspaper from the small pile in his bottom desk drawer. He's read it countless times over the years. But it's something about today that makes the hole inside him ache a little more.

Splashed across the front page of this particular issue is a picture of Basilisk tower. The top floor of it sending a plume of black smoke streaking across the sky. Others have his face and the headlines are all variations of the same thing –

'The Man Who Lived'

'Omega Hero'

'Broken but Undefeated'

His eyes skim through the articles and speculations of how he might have been able to survive a broken bond. There's been a few in history who have done it; Chief Guide Albus Dumbledore of the _Order of the Phoenix_ being the most recent.

Harry's brow feels damp and he tugs uncomfortably at his collar and tie while he ignores the thought of what it means.

"Alright, Harry?"

Harry looks up to see Ron standing by his office doorway. Harry straightens in his chair before stuffing the paper back into his bottom desk drawer. "Yeah, fine."

Ron comes over and whistles at the state of his desk. "Working hard, I see."

"Hermione said she's got some new evidence from the Ministry. Thought I'd pull up some old files."

"All of them, you mean?"

Harry grins. "Practically."

A chime goes off in the room and Harry swipes up his cell from the desk to see several text messages waiting for him. Though he refuses to put the number into his contacts, Harry knows exactly who it is.

_\- My place at 6?_

_\- ?_

_\- I've got things to do, Potter, stop playing hard to get._

_\- Unless you're on the pills again, you know you need what I can offer._

Harry growls under his breath before thumbing a curt response.

_\- I can get what you offer other places, prick._

Almost immediately there's a new response:

_\- Sure._

Harry angrily jabs back another reply.

_\- My place 9. Want you gone after though. I'm serious this time._

The reply he gets this time is a simple smiling emoji and Harry wants to throw his phone at the nearest wall. Instead he puts it on silent and chucks it into the top drawer of his desk before slamming it closed.

Ron raises an eyebrow. "That him?"

"Yeah."

Ron snorts and turns back to whatever he's playing on his phone. "Don't take this the wrong way, mate, but you sure know how to pick 'em."

Harry can't help but smile. "Tell me about it."

Ron's nose twitches and Harry can't help feeling a humiliated flush course through him. He knows he's close to his time of the month and wonders why, of all Sentinels, he had to pick Draco to help him with it. Must be a hidden masochistic urge, Harry supposes.

"You coming to lunch?" Ron says.

"No, think I'll stay with this for a bit."

Ron pulls a face as he pockets his own phone. "I see Hermione's work ethic's finally rubbed off on you after all these years," he says sadly. "And I thought I'd done so well to protect you!"

Harry laughs and waves him off. "Go on. I'll get a snack from the machine later."

With a "Suit yourself" Ron leaves and Harry heaves a sigh. He stands up and leans over his desk, frowning down at the folders and papers strewn about the surface. He straightens and pinches the bridge of his nose when a soft knock sounds on his office door.

"Come in," he calls over his shoulder.

Hermione slips through the door and gives him a tentative smile. "Hey," she says. "Ron said you'd be in here. Not going to lunch?"

Harry tries to give her a convincing smile in return. "Not today. Thought I'd give the case another go but..." He gestures helplessly at the desk. "Nothing. There's not enough evidence. Not enough links... The Order's scrambling."

Hermione gives him a sympathetic twist of her mouth. "The Ministry's not having an easier time of it either. Building back up the public's support and confidence hasn't been a picnic after the whole... well, you know."

Harry swallows, nods, and turns back to his desk. Without thinking, his fingers absently trace the faded raised flesh on his neck. There's a small sigh and Harry knows she's giving him that worried look again.

"Harry," Hermione begins in that tone of voice that means he shouldn't try. Harry's shoulders drop in defeat. She comes to stand next to him and places a palm on his back, rubbing soothing circles. "You miss him, don't you."

"It's just – It's like I can still feel him, you know? Like the bond's still there. I know it's crazy, but..." Harry trails off.

"It's not unheard of to feel phantom pains from bonds that've been... broken," Hermione tries. "Especially the way yours was."

She cuts herself off, knowing from past experience that pushing any further will go nowhere.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and avoids her eyes. "Right. Enough about me, what's going on with the case?"

And just like that, the topic is dropped and they get back to work. It's the only thing that can take Harry's mind off things these days.

"Well, I've actually got something for you this time. There've been more murders. Expertly carried out, left no trace. And the victims all seem to have previous involvement with Voldemort or his company in some way."

Harry's attention perks up at that and everything else is momentarily forgotten.

* * *

A lone figure sits at a long glass table in a basement. Along each wall is an armory lit only by a series of fluorescent lights embedded in the shelves. The glow of a screen illuminates his pale face while a small, neat pile of files and papers are stacked on the table beside him.

A minute movement makes his chest twinge. Briefly closing his eyes, he instinctively reaches for the comfort he craves. But in its place is emptiness; Nothing but a severed line. The remains of it are faint but he can still feel something. It's there. A thin sliver, a glowing thread in the dark. He hangs onto it like a life line. The only thing which helps him press forward.

It took a few months to heal, a full year to gather his forces. But it's only now that things are starting to take shape. Voldemort's most faithful have been picked off, one by one, along with any possible competition. It's only a matter of time now before Harry and The Order will start to hunt him down. They'll notice his patterns. They'll begin to wonder and question. He's content to let them, and confident in the knowledge his bonded will find him.

And when he does, Tom will be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe it's been more than a year since I started this! You've all been fantastic in sticking with me through it though, and your feedback has been invaluable (to say the very least). ♥♥ 
> 
> There might be a possible sequel if there's enough interest, and I've also made a small playlist as an accompaniment – You can find it on my [tumblr](http://vanillaghost.tumblr.com/post/156003258574/). Feel free to drop by and say hi, or tell me what you thought of the fic (and if I should plan another installment)!


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